


Conversations

by KiranInBlue



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Buffy the Vampire Slayer (Comics)
Genre: Comics compliant, Friendship, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-28
Updated: 2014-11-28
Packaged: 2018-02-27 06:39:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2682959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KiranInBlue/pseuds/KiranInBlue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five friends Andrew knew he was lucky to have. </p><p>(Comic-compliant, but the events of the comics do not generally play any major role in this story. See individual chapters for warnings.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Jonathan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Slight mention of past attempted suicide.

The air in the car was hot. Oppressively so. Andrew could feel his sweat drenching through his shirt and causing the fabric to stick to the car seat behind him, but whether that was a result of the heat or his heart-pounding terror, he wasn’t entirely sure.

Anxiously, Andrew peered through the window, trying to catch a glimpse of movement within the gas station they had stopped at. They’d been driving for three and a half hours already, pushing the speed limit as much as they possibly could without being pulled over. When dinnertime rolled around, they hadn’t stopped for Andrew’s audibly growling stomach, and he was also fairly certain that he’d never seen Jonathan go so long without a bathroom break before. They just kept driving, putting miles and miles between them and Sunnydale in a tense silence.

But eventually, the low fuel light had come on, and they had been forced to stop at the next roadside gas station. Jonathan filled up the car, and then had gone into the little convenience store to pay. That had been a full three and a half minutes ago. Andrew’s knee jiggled anxiously.

Andrew knew that it hadn’t been long enough to merit worry, but he couldn’t seem to calm his heart, which was pounding fit to burst in his chest. What if Willow had found Jonathan – what if she had teleported into that gas station and killed him already? Would Andrew know? Would there have been a commotion? Would Jonathan have had time to scream? Could Jonathan already be dead; was Andrew next -- ?

The door of the convenience store swung open. Jonathan stepped out.

Andrew heaved a sigh and relaxed back into his seat. Quickly, he did his best to arrange his expression into an air of casualness – nothing that would suggest he had just been panicking over his friend’s three-minute absence.

Jonathan popped the driver’s door open and climbed in. “Hey,” he said. Before Andrew could reply, Jonathan tossed a plastic bag into his lap. “Here – I grabbed you some dinner.”

Inside, Andrew found a shrink-wrapped muffin, a crushed bag of chips, and a warm can of soda.

“They were out of diet Coke. Sorry,” Jonathan added as he turned the key in the ignition.

“That’s okay,” Andrew replied. Then he paused, and uncertainly looked back down at the ‘meal’ in his lap. “Uh – but what about you? Do you want to share?” It didn’t look like enough for two, but maybe Jonathan was saving their cash.

“Not hungry.”

“Oh . . . okay.”

Andrew unpeeled the corner of his muffin and nibbled at it. Corn.

As they pulled back onto the highway, the atmosphere in the car fell back into silence. Andrew cast a sidelong glance at Jonathan; he was staring unblinkingly at the road stretching before them, his expression set in grim determination. Andrew had rarely seen Jonathan look so serious. It was hard to reconcile this image of him with the vacillating, self-conscious kid that made weak protests about their evil plans. It was hard to imagine this was the same guy Andrew had tried to abandon, not two days before.

Uneasy, Andrew fidgeted in his seat. He twisted the seat belt with the hand not occupied by the muffin – again and again, until it was a tight roll of fabric in his grip, and the edge was cutting into his shoulder.

Eventually, Jonathan glanced over. “Try to relax,” he said. “We’ve got a pretty good head start. We’re safe for now.”

Andrew nodded unhappily. “When do you want me to take over driving?”

“I’m not tired. Don’t worry about it.”

“Oh.”

There was another long, uneasy silence. Andrew picked at his muffin and began to count the cat’s eyes reflectors in the road.

When he reached one thousand, seven hundred and one, he glanced back at Jonathan.

“Why aren’t you mad at me?” he asked abruptly.

Jonathan looked at him then, eyebrows lifted. “I never said I wasn’t. I’m furious at you, actually.”

“Then why--?”

“Why am I taking care of you?”

Andrew nodded.

Jonathan heaved a sigh and gave a non-committal shrug. “I figure Warren screwed you over just as bad as he screwed me. Maybe a little worse. Anyway, we’re in this together, and, well, you’re still my friend. Traitor or not.”

Andrew swallowed. “What do you mean? That . . . that I had it worse?”

“He used you. He took advantage of your feelings for him and manipulated you, right?” Jonathan replied. “You may have _both_ tried to ditch me, but at least I saw that coming. But you - you were blindsided.” He paused, and snorted. “Not that I didn’t try to warn you, a couple _hundred_ times.” 

Andrew had begun twisting the seatbelt again. “ . . . You – you knew?”

“That he would maroon you as soon as it suited him?”

“No,” Andrew replied, and when he spoke next, his voice was almost in a whisper: “ . . . That I had feelings for him.”

Jonathan rolled his eyes. “’He never really loved – _hanging out with us’_?” he mimicked, in a high-pitched voice. “Yeah, Andrew, I knew.”

“Oh . . . “ Andrew muttered. He swallowed hard, then added: “H-he said not to tell you. He said you wouldn’t understand, that he didn’t want me to get hurt.”

“And you believed him.” It wasn’t an accusation; Jonathan’s voice was toneless and weary, but Andrew flinched all the same.

“I-I’m sorry.”

“Save it,” Jonathan replied. He wasn’t meeting Andrew’s eyes anymore. “Just . . . eat your dinner and get some rest. We’ll have this conversation later.”

Andrew nodded glumly and opened the bag of chips. This time, when silence descended, he let it stay.

* * *

For almost a month, they continued like that, in a tense kind of purgatory. They found cheap rooms in boarding houses, where mold painted the walls and the communal bathrooms were shared with rats and roaches. They did whatever odd jobs they could find, and collapsed into their one small bed at the end of the day with chapped hands, blistered feet, and sunburned necks. Usually they had food. Sometimes, though, they had to sleep on gnawing bellies. Jonathan wouldn’t let them steal, and Andrew didn’t protest much. They’d both lost their taste for evil.

One day at a time, they survived.

As time wore on, the unspoken conversation hung over their heads like a dark thundercloud. Jonathan knew that at some point they were going to have to talk, but he just couldn’t bring himself to start the conversation. Andrew was still in shock; during the day, he managed to bounce around as he usually did, whining about the bruises on his knees and referencing the Mask of Zorro at every given opportunity – but his eyes were just a little too wide, his body language just a little too skittish. And at night, when no one was looking, Jonathan could feel him shake with silent sobs in the bed beside him.

Jonathan dreaded those nights. Every day, he hoped that Andrew would be worn out enough from a long day’s labor to fall asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow; at least then, Jonathan wouldn’t lie awake, torn up with warring feelings of sympathy, anger, and guilt. How were you supposed to respond when your only friend left in the world cried himself to sleep, grieving over a man who had attempted to engineer your downfall? Especially when said friend had played a part in that master plan? Jonathan could never bring himself to comfort Andrew when he shook beside him, and in the mornings, when Andrew explained away his red and puffy eyes as “allergies to the mold”, he just nodded.

But, at the same time, when Andrew curled in on himself at night and pulled away Jonathan’s half of their ratty, moth-eaten blanket, Jonathan could let him have that small comfort. And when he saw the poorly hidden anxiety and loneliness in Andrew’s expression, he could put off the conversation a few more days.

“ _Just another day,”_ Jonathan would tell himself each time they came back to their stained and drafty rooms in the evenings. “ _Then we’ll both feel better. Then we can talk_.”

* * *

But when the storm finally broke, it was messy, violent, and entirely unplanned.

It happened late one evening. Jonathan and Andrew had spent the long, hot day painting the side of a barn in exchange for two meals and hundred pesos apiece. The constant string of hard jobs had not treated them well; the skin all across Jonathan’s shoulders and upper back had turned a deep, angry red, and Andrew was still limping from when he had dropped a toolbox on his foot the day before. And that wasn’t even mentioning how every muscle in their bodies was crying out in protest of movements as small as _breathing_.

Still, they had gotten fed and paid. Jonathan wasn’t complaining.

They finally made it back to their room, and Andrew didn’t even bother to unlace his shoes before collapsing, spread-eagle, across the hard mattress. He let out a loud, muffled groan into the pillow.

Although sympathetic, Jonathan nudged an arm hanging over the side of the mattress with his foot. “Hey, get up. It’s your turn to wash the clothes tonight, remember?”

Andrew groaned again. “Cn’fyudo’t.”

“What?”

Andrew flopped his head to one side on the pillow and fixed Jonathan with a pitiful stare. “Can’t _you_ do it?” he said again, in a high-pitched whine. “I’m so _tired_.”

And maybe if Jonathan hadn’t been so sore, he could have let the comment slide. Maybe if he hadn’t spent almost five hours the previous night staring sleeplessly at the ceiling as Andrew cried beside him, he could have simply sighed and nudged Andrew again. But Jonathan was _exhausted_ and _in pain_ , and at that moment, the worn tatters of his control finally fell away.

“Can’t _I_ do it?” Jonathan echoed incredulously. “ _Can’t I do it_?”

As the pitch of Jonathan’s voice rose, Andrew scrambled upright, his eyes wide as a startled rabbit’s.

“ _You’re_ tired?” Jonathan continued. “How do you think _I_ feel, Andrew?! I worked that job as hard as you did, and _on top_ of that, I was the one who got us that job at five-freaking-thirty in the morning! _I’m_ the one who got us this room, and every room before this one – I haggle and argue and beg, while you just sit in the corner and – and kick dust bunnies! I do _everything_!”

“B-but that’s not fair! I don’t speak Spanish!” Andrew protested, his voice a squeak. “I took Latin in high school!”

“ _You could learn!_ You learned Klingon in two weeks and _two_ dialects of Vulcan in four! But no – you’re happy to just sit back and let me do everything, to make me take care of you, and you won’t lift a finger to do anything to help!”

“That’s not true!” Andrew retorted. “I do the jobs too! I – I climbed to the loft today when you were too scared to, even though _I_ have an inner ear condition!”

At that, Jonathan recoiled. The paint they’d needed for the job that day had been kept in the loft of the barn, and when Jonathan had gone to retrieve it . . . well, he hadn’t been able to do heights for a while. Not since the bell tower in senior year. When Andrew had finally had to come looking for him, he’d found Jonathan curled in on himself, crouched on the floor with his head between his knees.

“You only did that because if no one went up there, we weren’t getting _fed_ ,” Jonathan said coldly. “It wasn’t about helping me; all you care about is yourself!”

“That’s not true!”

“Isn’t it?” Jonathan shot back. “Since _when_ have you gone out of your way to make this whole thing a little bit easier on _me_? Did you ever think that this might not be exactly how I wanted to spend my summer – with rats and hard labor and sunburn?! This _sucks!_ ”

“Fine!” Andrew said shrilly. “I’ll do the laundry, okay? Just – just stop!”

But the floodgates on Jonathan’s anger had already crumbled, and Andrew’s concession could do nothing to stem the flow. Jonathan’s fists were clenched, and he was visibly shaking as he glared, almost unseeingly, at Andrew.

“And the best part about it is--,” Jonathan continued, as if Andrew hadn’t said anything. “I shouldn’t even _be_ here! Why am I here, living off less than ten dollars a day in disgusting rooms? This is all _your_ fault; what did _I_ do to deserve this? I was never like you – like you and Warren! I wasn’t one of you, which you guys made really clear when you _fucking abandoned me_!”

Andrew visibly flinched.

Jonathan felt a twinge of sadistic vindication, but he did not pause in his tirade. “I never liked what you guys were doing, but when I tried to tell you, you just ignored me! I _told_ you something bad was going to happen, but no, you just decided: ‘we know – let’s let Jonathan, our good, loyal friend Jonathan, take the fall for _everything_! And then we’ll ride off into the sunset, laughing our asses off at poor old Jonathan who was such an _idiot_ for trusting us!’ That seems fair!” He snorted derisively, and turned on his heel to glare at a mold stain on the wall.

“I-it wasn’t like that! I’m sorry—!“

“ _No you’re not_!” Jonathan snapped. “You’re just sorry your grand scheme didn’t go as planned! If you hadn’t crashed your stupid jet pack, you’d be laughing it up with Warren in Barbados or something right now, while I rotted in prison!” He kicked out furiously at the wall, and succeeded in only letting out a small yelp when he stubbed his toe.

“No, really—!“

“But lucky me – your plan screwed up, and Warren went psycho, and here I am, fleeing for my life, and you’re my only friend, and how sad is that, considering you’re a _lazy, childish, traitor_!”

Andrew let out a squeak, and when Jonathan turned to him, he saw that tears were welling up in his wide, terrified eyes.

Something deflated in Jonathan. Anger still burned so hot in his stomach that he was beginning to feel queasy, and there were more sharp words poised at the tip of tongue – but as Andrew sniveled and wiped his nose on his sweatshirt, Jonathan felt all that begin to fall away.

“Why wasn’t I good enough for you guys?” he murmured finally.

“Th-that’s not true,” Andrew whimpered. He was crying openly now. “It w-wasn’t that you weren’t good enough! Warren said you – you’d hate me when you found out about us – a-about me and him. He said he h-had to protect me, that – that w-we would be together, b-but only if we got rid of you first because h-he didn’t want me – me to . . . to be h-hurt.”

Jonathan’s eyes prickled uncomfortably.  “ _Why_ , Andrew?” he demanded, but his voice sounded choked – pleading, not yelling. “Why would you believe him? I was your friend first, wasn’t I?”

“I . . . I thought he loved me.” Andrew’s shoulders slumped. “But n-now he’s dead, and you – you hate me.”

“I don’t hate you.”

Andrew froze and stared up at Jonathan.

“I don’t hate you,” Jonathan said again, giving him a small shrug. “I’m angry and upset, but I don’t hate you. You’re still my friend.”

“Oh . . . okay.” Andrew dropped his gaze back to the floor. “I’m still r-really sorry I betrayed you.”

“I know.” Jonathan turned away. He couldn’t forgive Andrew, not just yet. But watching Andrew stare miserably at his feet, sniffling and wiping his eyes, was making something twist uncomfortably in Jonathan’s chest.

“I won’t ever do it again, you know. Whatever we do now, we’re a team. I-I won’t do anything that’s not for you, too.”

“Glad to hear it,” Jonathan muttered.

The fight had gone out of him, and the bone-deep exhaustion from earlier was returning full force. Or even more so; the yelling had drained what little energy he’d had left.  

Andrew was still sitting on the room’s sole piece of furniture, and at the moment, Jonathan felt no desire to sit in close proximity to him. Instead, he sank to the floor where he stood. When he was sitting on the cold earth, back up against the wall, Jonathan drew his knees up to his chest and closed his eyes with a heavy sigh.

He was tired of drafty rooms and infrequent meals. He was so sick of water that smelled bad and waking up with scratchy welts from bedbugs they never seemed to be able to escape. He’d missed the last three _Star Trek: Enterprise_ episodes, and good lord, he would kill just for a long, hot shower. Or not kill. Killing was bad. Killing started with stupid plans in stupid basements with friends who finally noticed you and you didn’t want to say no to, and it ended with dead friends and bedbugs in rural Mexico. Jonathan was done with killing. He just wanted to go home.

And, more than anything else, he wanted to not feel so alone. The betrayal sat cold in his chest, sucking the warmth out of whatever company Andrew could provide.

He heaved a heavy sigh and tried to ignore the way his throat stung.

“Um . . . I-I’ll just go wash the clothes, okay?” Andrew sniffed; it sounded as if he was still crying, but less so than before.

Jonathan just nodded wearily.

Andrew shuffled around the room for a few more moments, until finally the click of the door signaled his exit.

When Andrew had gone, Jonathan heaved himself up from the floor and dragged himself over to the bed. He collapsed on the far side of the mattress, not even bothering to pull the lone blanket over his body.

He’d hoped that solitude would bring him some degree of solace; Andrew’s presence was a painful reminder of a betrayal that cut much deeper than he’d expected, and . . . if nothing else, Jonathan knew how to be alone. He’d had years of practice. But now, as he stared unblinkingly at the far wall in an empty room, he found himself feeling worse than ever.

* * *

Jonathan wasn’t sure of when he’d fallen asleep, but some hours later, he found himself roused, once again, by the trembling of Andrew’s quiet sobs.

Like every other night that Jonathan had awoken to Andrew’s tears, Andrew was curled up on his side, as far away on the mattress from Jonathan as it was possible to be without tumbling over the side. His shoulders were hunched up and tense, but it didn’t disguise the small, snuffling gasps of choked-off sobs.

Jonathan lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling. It would be so easy, he thought, to roll over and pretend to be asleep. Sure, he would lie awake for hours, but eventually true sleep would overtake him again, and when he awoke, this would have all passed over. It would be so easy to just ignore him. It’s what he did every night.

Jonathan rolled over. But tonight, instead of turning his back on Andrew, for the first time, he turned to face him.

Andrew was still facing the wall, his shoulders trembling as he fought to keep his tears quiet. He didn’t seem to have registered Jonathan’s movement. Hesitantly, Jonathan reached out one hand. When his palm hovered a centimeter from the fabric of Andrew’s shirt, he paused – then, gently pressed his hand against to the center of Andrew’s back.

At the touch, Andrew stiffened.

Jonathan said nothing, but gently began to rub small circles across Andrew’s back, taking care to keep his movements soothing. He ran his thumb over the ridge of Andrew’s shoulder blade, then again – it was a hesitant stroke, guarded and cautious, but affectionate all the same. After a few moments, Andrew relaxed into the touch.

Neither of them spoke.

* * *

It was the hour before dawn the following morning, and Andrew stood outside the door to their room, balancing a warm plate of fried tomatoes on toast on each hand.

He swallowed hard. Nerves had formed a tight knot in the pit of his belly; he knew that Jonathan was still angry with him, despite whatever moment of connection they had shared in the late hours of the previous night. But Jonathan was his only friend now, and he had to do whatever he could to make sure they stuck together.

Not that Jonathan was wrong to be mad at him, of course. Andrew _had_ betrayed him. Sure, they’d been evil and all, but they were, like, _lawful evil_. That was supposed to come with an honor code, and by conspiring with Warren, Andrew had violated that. But at least Andrew knew what he had to do. He had to follow the path of redemption; he had to test himself and prove, with honor and tenacity, that he was a worthy friend of Jonathan’s.

So, at four-thirty in the morning, Andrew had rolled sluggishly out of bed and made his way to the open-air market down the road. It was still early, but some stalls had already been set up, hoping to escape the heat of midday. He bought a few tomatoes, a loaf of bolillo, and even managed to get a pinch of spices on his share of yesterday’s earnings. Back at the boarding house, he traded a tomato for some oil, and used the communal area’s single, temperamental stovetop to toast the bread and fry off the remaining tomatoes.

It wasn’t a fancy breakfast, but it was the first time in a long while that they’d have a hot one. Andrew shifted the balance of the plates in his hands and somehow, he managed to turn the doorknob with his elbows.

As the door creaked open, Jonathan stirred. He groggily lifted his head from the pillow and turned to peer blearily at Andrew.

“Wha . . . --? . . . You’re awake already?”

“Morning!” Andrew said cheerily. “Uh, I figure we have to be back at the barn in like an hour so, um, I made breakfast.” He set his peace offering on the foot of the bed.

Jonathan propped himself up on his elbows, and glanced down at the fried tomatoes, then back up at Andrew. “ . . . You cooked?”

Andrew shrugged self-consciously. “Well . . . yeah. I . . . I don’t want to make you do everything. So, I got food.”

“How’d you get food and permission to use the stove? You . . . don’t speak Spanish.”

“Uh. Gesturing, mostly.”

Jonathan lifted his eyebrows in faint surprise, but a small smile tugged at his lips. “…Huh. Well, thanks.” He picked up one of the plates and took a piece of toast.

Andrew sat down on the edge of the bed and placed the other plate in his lap. “I’m sorry that I was a bad friend. I’ll fix it now.”

Jonathan, his mouth full of bread and tomato, just nodded.

“You’re, um . . . you’re not going to leave now, though, right?” Andrew added anxiously. “I mean, I understand why you might want to, but, uh, I figure we’ll be better off working together. Safety in numbers and everything, right?”

Jonathan glanced up and swallowed quickly. “Andrew, I’m not going anywhere. Yeah, I’m pissed as hell at you, but we’re still friends. We’re in this together.”

“Promise?”

“Promise,” Jonathan replied. “And . . . I’m sorry I said everything was your fault.”

At that, Andrew blinked. “But you were right; I screwed up.”

“Yeah, but you weren’t the only one. I mean, I helped you guys. And, I didn’t try as hard as I could to stop you guys from doing really bad things. So, that was my fault.” Jonathan shrugged. “I mean, I still wasn’t as evil as you and Warren, but like, I guess I wasn’t a good guy either.”

“Oh . . . I-I guess that makes sense,” Andrew said nervously. But then, he glanced up again, and suddenly his eyes were bright with newfound determination. “Well, we’ll atone for all of that now,” he declared. “Together – we’ll make up for everything with hard work and gross rooms and – and bad food! This is our penance, and we won’t do any more evil things, and at the end, we’ll be good!”

At his enthusiasm, Jonathan couldn’t help a grin. “I like that plan. Although --,” he added, considering. “Maybe not such bad food.” He gestured at the spiced fried tomatoes on his plate. “I didn’t know you cooked, other than those cookies you made us sometimes back in Sunnydale.”

“Oh. Yeah, I cooked at home sometimes. My aunt said I had a knack for it.”

“She was right.”

“Well, I’ll cook more often!” Andrew promised. “That can be my job!”

“Tell you what: you take on full cooking duty, and I’ll do all laundry from here on out.”

Andrew brightened. “Really?”

“Fair’s fair.”

“Oh. Thanks, Jonathan.”

“Sure.”

There was a pause, broken only by the sounds of chewing. The tension in the air had shifted flavor; it was hesitant now, on the verge of companionable, rather than heavy with barely-veiled anger. It wasn’t completely okay, but was a start.

It was Jonathan who spoke next. “Thanks, Andrew,” he said finally, not quite looking up to meet Andrew’s eyes.

“For the food?”

“No – I mean, for that, too. But also . . . thanks for trying. You did screw up, big time. But . . . you’re sticking around and trying to make up for it. A lot of people wouldn’t do that, so it means a lot. You’re not a bad friend. So, thanks.”

“Oh!” Andrew said, looking taken aback, but pleased with himself nonetheless. “Um, yeah, you’re welcome. And, you’re, uh, not a bad friend either.”

Jonathan glanced at him. He grinned. “Thanks.” 


	2. Anya

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Discussion of homophobia, discussion of past attempted rape.

This whole hospital raid thingy was definitely one of Andrew’s better ideas. As he and Anya stacked up the supplies into towering piles in the car, he felt a surge of pride warm his chest; _this_ was useful. Now, no one could say that he wasn’t pulling his weight or that he wasn’t a productive member of Team Anti-Evil.  When Buffy saw just how many bandages and antibiotics and sutures they’d managed to get their hands on, she might even say something approving of him.

Andrew grinned at the thought.

“Okay, that’s packed,” Anya said as she stepped out of the backseat, where she’d been stacking a cardboard box of bandages on top of their stuffed duffel. “What else do we have?”

“Um – well . . .” Andrew turned back to the cart they’d used to bring their loot out to the car. “That’s pretty much everything,” he said. “Oh except – we’ve got a gallon of unopened rubbing alcohol.” With a grunt, he made to heave it off the cart.

Anya reached over and plucked the container out of his arms.

“ _Excellent,_ ” she said cheerfully, and packed it into the backseat as well. “Now we can finish off Giles’ whiskey.”

Andrew frowned. “’Finish off . . .?’ You mean . . . drink it? Don’t – don’t we still need that? I mean one or two sips, sure, but --”

But Anya had already pulled the bottle out from under the passenger seat. “Don’t be ridiculous. Now we actually have the stuff that’s good for wounds, so the stuff that’s good for drinking should be used for its proper purpose.”

“A-are you sure? Shouldn’t we give it back to Mr. Giles?” Andrew might very well have earned himself some praise by engineering this whole hospital raid, and he didn’t want to risk it by stealing Mr. Giles’ good alcohol.

Anya just snorted. “He already sacrificed this bottle to the cause,” she pointed out. “And I’ve decided my enjoying it is part of the cause.”

“Oh . . . well, if we both drink it, who’s going to be the designated driver?”

Anya shot him a withering look. “Look, you don’t have to drink if you don’t want to. _I_ don’t want you to, because then there’s more for me.” She leaned up against the side of the car and began to unscrew the bottle. “And anyway, I have no interest in going back to Slayer Fortress right now. I’ll probably be sober by the time I head back.”

Again, Andrew frowned. “Don’t they kind of, uh, need us though? Shouldn’t we be there to – to help out?”

“With what? We’re not Slayer wannabes, and we don’t have any kind of witchy powers. There’s no more research to do, and we have enough stakes to build a fence around Sunnydale. If we go back now, we’ll just end up holding up punching bags for Buffy or something. No, thank you.”

Andrew considered this. She had a point.

“Okay,” he said finally. “Let me have some.”

Anya scowled at him.

* * *

Thirty minutes later, they were sitting on the hood of the car, an empty bottle between them. The crescent moon hung high in the sky. The night was chilly, but the alcohol warmed Andrew’s limbs, making him feel light and . . . not happy, exactly. But okay. He craned his neck upwards, tracing out the Big Dipper in the stars above.

“I heard the constellations are different in New Zealand,” he said suddenly. “Did you know I was supposed to go there, actually?”

Anya shot him a bemused look.

“It was me and Warren’s plan,” Andrew explained. “When we left . . . when we betrayed Jonathan, we were supposed to fly off and lie low for a bit while he took the fall and people forgot about us. We were gonna go to New Zealand – hang around the set of The Lord of the Rings, see if we could be extras in some of the pick-up shots.”

“And . . . why do I care?” Anya asked pointedly.

He shrugged.

For a moment, the silence stretched between them. Then, Andrew spoke again, his voice quiet: “I loved him, you know.”

Anya glanced at him. “Warren?”

Andrew nodded.

She let out a sound that was almost a snort. “You have _spectacularly_ bad taste,” she commented. “Even considering how scummy men are usually.”

Andrew conceded the point with a small ‘hmm’. He considered, for a moment, letting the conversation trail off – but the alcohol was still making him feel warm and woozy, and being drunk meant you were supposed to share. So he continued: “He just – he _noticed_ me, you know? Like . . . before Tucker went to college, and they used to hang out. He used to say hi to me, even when he didn’t have to. And then, he let me hang out with him and Jonathan even though I was younger than them. He said it was because I was . . . I was special. That I was smart, and talented, and useful.”

Anya rolled her eyes, but Andrew didn’t notice. He pressed on:

“He figured out pretty quick that I – that I loved him. He was really nice about it. And he said that-- . . .” Andrew paused, thinking. “ . . . No, I guess he never actually said it,” he admitted finally. “But he _implied_ he loved me, too.” He sighed, and his shoulders drooped. “Although, I guess he probably never did. He probably liked just having me around because I followed his orders. I don’t think he really cared about me. I wonder, if . . . if I hadn’t crashed my jet pack, maybe I still would never have made it to New Zealand. Maybe he would have just abandoned me over Brazil or something.”

“Probably,” Anya said simply. “He was an asshole.”

Andrew didn’t argue.

“Usually I work my vengeance thing for women,” she continued after a moment. “But for you, I probably would have stranded him Antarctica with a family of hungry Bleaucha demons, or welded his jet pack permanently to his feet so they sent him careening into space. You know, if I was still a vengeance demon. And he was still alive.”

Andrew blinked at her, his expression an odd mixture of admiration and fear. “Th-thank you,” he stammered. Then he paused. “I think.”

She shrugged.

“You’re actually the fourth person in the world to know,” Andrew added, when she didn’t say anything more. “Like, ever.”

“What, that you had the poorly-advised hots for Warren?”

“Well, that, too. But, uh, that there, uh . . . there were guys.” Andrew fidgeted uncomfortably, twisting the sleeve of his sweatshirt between his fingers. “Tucker guessed. He . . . he said it would be trouble. Then Warren. Jonathan said he figured it out, too. Now you.” He swallowed. “Thanks for, um, not being weird about it.”

But Anya just let out an exasperated huff. “That’s something I don’t get about you humans,” she said. “All these weird, arbitrary rules you put around attraction and who you want to have sex with. It was a big deal with Willow and her witchy girlfriend, too – I don’t know why. I think everyone would be a lot happier if they were just open about what they wanted and just _did it_. It would mean more sex, which would make people happier. Sex makes people happy.”

“But I’m not gay, you know,” Andrew said hastily. “There was an assembly in high school where they brought in some gay people to talk about homophobia and stuff like that, and they all said they knew they were gay when they weren’t interested in girls. And, I mean, I’d thought maybe – Tucker said I was . . . but I didn’t _not_ like girls. So, it’s not that.” He hesitated. “I guess.”

Anya shot him a disbelieving look. “And that’s _another_ thing I don’t get about you humans. Why do you try to put everything into these little boxes, when most of you are actually fully aware that it’s not really either-or? You’d think after a couple hundred years, you would drop the collective delusion.”

“’Not either-or’?” Andrew echoed. He frowned, and awkwardly shifted his weight to his left. “You mean . . . like both?”

“Haven’t you heard the word ‘bisexual’? God, for a nerd, you really don’t know much, do you?”

“Bisexual? Is . . . is that what you think I am?”

“ _I_ don’t know,” she replied. “Are you?”

Andrew considered this. He actually _had_ heard the word ‘bisexual’ before, but he’d never really thought to apply it to himself. Those were the kind of thoughts that, as a rule, he’d tried to avoid. But now that he thought about it . . . well, it made sense, he supposed.

“. . . Maybe,” he said, finally. “It doesn’t really matter, though; I’m done with guys. Tucker always said that being gay – or bisexual or whatever – would mean trouble. And . . . and he was right. I did bad things. It hurt.”

Anya snorted. “What, you think that you being gay somehow made Warren more evil or something?”

“Well –“

But she cut him off. “He was just an asshole, Andrew. And you were an asshole and an idiot to follow him.”

“But he—“

“Men are douchebags,” Anya continued, matter-of-factly. “It’s a universal constant. It doesn’t matter who’s attracted to them or who they’re attracted to. Just look at his girlfriend! That was a simple, traditional, heterosexual relationship, and he wasn’t any nicer with her. She’s _dead_ now. What went wrong – that was all about entitled nerds having a shitty sense of reality, not about what parts you like on your partners in bed.”

But rather than looking comforted, Andrew flinched. “ . . . You’re talking about Katrina,” he murmured.

“Yeah, her.”

Andrew had started fiddling with his sleeves again, his brow creased with unhappiness. “I helped cover up her murder,” he muttered miserably. “Warren killed her, and God, I . . . I helped Warren hypnotize her into being his sex slave! If I hadn’t helped make the cerebral dampener, he never could’ve brought her back to our lair. And he said he’d _share_ her with me – I almost . . . I almost . . .”

He didn’t finish his sentence. He didn’t have to.

Anya was staring at him, disgust written clear on her face. “If I was still a vengeance demon, I’d strand _you_ in Antarctica, too,” she said acidly.

“I know. I deserve it. I mean, I _didn’t_ , and when she broke out of the hypnosis and said that it was r-rape, I freaked out, but I still almost . . .” He swallowed. “And she still died because of we did. Because of me, she isn’t going to – to get married, or be an engineer. Maybe she watched _Enterprise_ , and she didn’t even get to see ‘Acquisition’!” Andrew’s shoulders slumped. “ . . . I deserve Antarctica. Or worse.”

“Probably,” Anya replied. “I can’t _believe_ I actually had a wheelchair fight with you!”

“I know. I’m sorry. I was really, really stupid.”

Anya nodded grimly. “Yes, you definitely are.”

Andrew picked at a loose thread on his sleeve. He didn’t meet her eyes.

“But see, that’s my point exactly,” she continued. “You weren’t evil because you were _gay_. You were evil – and a creepy, disgusting, almost-rapist – because you were _stupid_.”

At that, the corner of Andrew’s lip twitched. “Yeah,” he said. “I guess you’re right.”

“Of course I am.”

The next several minutes passed in silence. The night was growing cold; Andrew shivered, but he didn’t complain. He lay back on the hood of the car and turned his gaze back toward the stars. Next to him, Anya cradled the empty bottle in her hands, staring at the glass expectantly, as if in the hope that it might refill itself if she glared at it long enough. For a long while, they just sat like that, lost in thought in one another’s company.

Anya had just begun to shiver as well when Andrew rolled onto his side to look at her.

“Anya.”

She glanced at him.

Andrew propped himself up on his elbows. “Before we go back to the house, there’s something I need to do,” he said, suddenly decisive. “Can we make a stop on the way back?”

Anya frowned at him suspiciously. “How stupid is this idea?”

“Hey! Today’s a good decision day for me – this hospital heist was _my_ idea, wasn’t it?”

“Isn’t there that human saying that even a stopped clock is right twice a day?” But there wasn’t much venom in her voice, and then she let out a sigh. “Fine. But I’m gonna keep an eye on you.”

“I guess that’s fair.”

Anya made a small sound of agreement. Then she stood, and tucked the empty bottle under one arm. “Now where is it that you wanted to go?”

* * *

The graveyard was eerily quiet. Anya had been in the Sunnydale cemetery her fair share of times, but tonight, it seemed that the stillness was more profound than ever. It was as if even the dark things that once lurked between the tombstones had sensed the upcoming battle and fled town.

In fact, that was probably exactly what had happened, Anya mused to herself. Not for the first time, she wondered at her decision to stay behind.

Andrew strode ahead of her, weaving between the gravestones as his eyes scanned the epithets, searching. From his right hand hung a cluster of wildflowers he’d found growing behind the hospital; he’d lashed together stalks of vervain and corn lily blossoms with a strip of surgical tape, forming a surprisingly neat bouquet. He seemed to be almost _bouncing_ with nervous energy – more so than what was usual, even for him.

“Do you even know what you’re looking for?” Anya asked exasperatedly, when Andrew suddenly double-backed for the third time.

“Yes! I just . . . uh, haven’t actually visited before.” He paused, then grimaced. “I suppose I should feel bad about that.”

“Well, how do you know where you’re going?”

“Jonathan visited once – he marked a map of the plots, and he left it at the hideout. Warren wasn’t happy when he saw . . . uh. But anyway, just give me a moment. I’m sure I’ll remember.”

Anya shot him a disbelieving look. Andrew, craning his neck to squint at another headstone to the far left, didn’t notice.

Anya was just beginning to consider calling off this entire expedition – it was getting cold, and late, and quiet or no, she didn’t really like the idea of being in the Sunnydale cemetery after dark with only a skittish, scrawny nerd as backup – when Andrew suddenly let out a sound that was remarkably close to a squeak, and dashed off.

“Andrew!” Anya snapped after him. “Come back here!”

“But I found it!”

Anya heaved a sigh and followed after him.

When she caught up with him, she found Andrew kneeling in front of a simple granite headstone at the edge of the cemetery. His eyes were fixed on the ground before him, and his makeshift bouquet of Californian wildflowers rested at the foot of the stone.

The lettering on the grave read: _Katrina Silber 1981-2002. Beloved daughter, sister, and friend._

“Do you think I should say something?” Andrew said softly, still not lifting his eyes from the ground. “What . . . what are you supposed to say when you’re an accomplice to murder?”

Anya watched him, considering. All day, Andrew had been one surprise after another – the food, the hospital raid, his knowledge of medical supplies, his moment of drunken reflection on the hood of the car. If someone had told her yesterday that Andrew would willingly confront his role in the worst of the Trio’s crimes . . . well, she supposed looming death made a nerd grow up.

“I don’t know,” she said finally. “I think that’s mostly to make the living feel better about themselves anyway. I’m pretty sure it doesn’t help the souls of the people who are already dead.”

“Oh.” Andrew didn’t move.

Anya leaned up against a headstone behind her and waited. The night breeze fluttered through her hair and made her shiver, but she resolved herself to give Andrew his time. Apparently, looming death made an ex-vengeance demon develop patience, too. Go figure.

Then, Andrew shifted his weight and pulled a thick, black marker out of his pocket. He uncapped it.

Anya frowned. “What are you doing?”

“Wait,” he said simply.

And Anya wasn’t entirely sure why, but she did. She leaned back against the gravestone and watched as Andrew leaned forward and began to write.

When he leaned back, spindly black letters were scratched out across the bottom of the headstone in a shaky hand: _SHE WAS MURDERED_.

“I know . . . no one’s really going to see it,” Andrew said quietly, as he stowed the marker back in his pocket. “It’s not even permanent. But . . . I couldn’t just do nothing. We’re the only ones who know she was murdered. Everyone else . . . her friends, her family – they think she killed herself. She deserves the truth.” He swallowed hard. “If I survived this battle, I would make sure they know. But I . . . I won’t. So I had to do something.”

Anya looked at him, then at the text he had scrawled across the granite. “It’s a start,” she conceded.

Andrew’s lips twitched into a weak, half-smile.

“And tell you what,” she continued. “If you don’t survive tomorrow, _I’ll_ tell them.”

He glanced up at her. “ . . .You will?”

“Sure. You’re right; she does deserve the truth.” She paused, then added: “And – I suppose that’s what friends are for. Helping you fix things when you screw up.”

This time, when Andrew smiled, it was real. “Thanks, Anya.”

She shrugged. “Yeah, sure. Whatever. Now, let’s get out of here so that I don’t freeze to death before having the chance to stupidly risk my life fighting on the side of you humans.”

She turned on her heel and stalked out of the cemetery, leaving Andrew to scramble after her.


	3. Dawn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Some discussion of body image issues.

“So this demon, Sweet, how exactly did he appear? Eye color, unusual body parts, odd smells?”

“I dunno,” Dawn replied. “Red skin, and he dressed nice.”

Andrew nodded seriously and bent back over his legal pad, pushing a stray lock of shaggy brown hair out of his face as he scratched out some notes.

“Why does it matter anyhow?” Dawn added. “We have a sketch of him in one of those demonology texts in the living room – why don’t you just check that?”

“Ah, but replication is an _essential_ part of good documenting! What if Sweet could change his appearance at will, or what if someone made a mistake on the original drawing? We have to compare reports!”

Dawn sighed.

When Andrew had arrived in Rome a month ago, with orders to take responsibility for the Italy branch of the new global Slayer Organization, Dawn had been dubious. It was difficult to wrap her mind around the idea of the fidgety, whiny nerd she’d known in Sunnydale being in charge of the training of multiple new Slayers. But once she’d seen the new-and-improved Andrew in action, she had to admit that she was impressed. Andrew had dedicated himself to his new role with all the enthusiasm he usually reserved for comic books and decades-old science fiction franchises, and the effort showed. He connected well with the girls he tracked down, participated in physical training with only minimal complaining, and could spout off knowledge of evil things like one of Giles’ demon encyclopedias.  He’d even taken advantage of his location to work on his cooking, much to the delight of his Slayer Squad; his first attempt at cannoli last week had been absolutely delicious.

One unfortunate drawback of Andrew’s newfound sense of responsibility, on the other hand, was his renewed interest in documenting. He’d begun drilling everyone endlessly about every little detail of their encounters with Hellish beings, both present and past. He interrogated the core Scoobies about a decade of averted apocalypses, and his Slayers grumbled about the twenty-page reports he made them fill out after each and every mission – even single vampire stakings.

They’d tried complaining to Giles, of course. But instead of telling Andrew that such extensivedocumenting was entirely unnecessary, Giles had _praised_ him for his thoroughness and encouraged the others to cooperate. The traitor.

And so here Dawn was, growing stiff in an uncomfortable, rickety chair as she struggled to answer questions about the appearance of a demon she hadn’t seen for two years. She could almost feel the heat of the metaphorical interrogation lamp burning her face.

“When you say ‘red’, what do you mean exactly? Are we talking, like, _scarlet_ , or something more like, uh, carmine?”

She groaned. “What even _is_ carmine?”

“It’s a deep red, slightly purplish,” Andrew answered matter-of-factly. The unruly curl of hair had fallen in front of his face again, and he brushed it away.

“He was just _red_ , okay – like, your stereotypical devil.”

“ . . . So, maybe crimson?”

Dawn rolled her eyes. “Yeah. Sure. Crimson.”

Andrew brightened, and scribbled something on his legal pad. Again, the lock of hair escaped from behind his ear.

As Andrew impatiently pushed the curl back, Dawn snorted.

“Do you need to borrow a hair elastic?” she asked, amused.

Andrew glanced at her questioningly.

In answer, she gestured to his right hand, which was now ineffectively attempting to flatten his hair back again his head.

“Oh,” he said. “Er. Yeah. Maybe. I’ve been, uh, meaning to get it cut, but I just haven’t gotten around to it. I’ve been really busy with the Squad, and stuff.”

Dawn saw her chance to escape the interrogation, and she jumped.

“We could do it now!” she suggested quickly. “I know how to cut hair, and there are still a few hours before evening, training right?”

Andrew looked uncertain. “But . . . uh, the record of Sweet --,” he protested.

“He’s not exactly a threat right now, is he? And maybe taking a break will help me remember better for later. I heard doing something else jogs your memory.”

He considered this. “That’s true,” he conceded.

“Yes! Exactly! And I’m sure you’ll work better when you can see properly.” Dawn bounced up and dragged Andrew from his chair by his wrist. He let out a startled yelp at the sudden movement, but Dawn did not pause in herding him away from his stacks of notepads and tape recorders. “Come on, it’ll be great!”

“O-okay?”

* * *

Andrew wasn’t entirely sure how, but an hour later, he found himself on the sidewalk of Via Cola di Rienzo, the handles of a large shopping bag biting into one hand.

All he knew was that one moment, Dawn had been admiring her handiwork on his hair, and the next, her face had lit up in a way that made Andrew feel a little nervous.

“Dude,” she’d said. “That looks _so_ much better. Why’d you grow it out, again?”

Andrew shrugged vaguely. “I thought it would look more like a Watcher. But, uh, I don’t think it suited me.”

“It didn’t. Seriously, it looks _so_ much better now.”

He looked faintly pleased. “Oh . . . well, good,” he said. “Although, I suppose I should shave, too, now. I, uh, overslept this morning, and forgot yesterday . . .”

But Dawn was peering at him, considering, and she shook her head. “The stubble doesn’t look bad, actually. I mean, yeah, with that sweatshirt it looks more _scruffy_ than _scruff_ –“

“What’s wrong with my sweatshirt?” Andrew had protested, petulantly stuffing his hands into the pockets of his oversized Wolverine hoodie.

Dawn ignored him. “But if you wore something that actually fit . . .” She trailed off, and her expression took on a disconcerting gleefulness. “ . . . Andrew, how much allowance do Watchers get, anyway?”

He’d answered her honestly, and that’s when he’d ended up on the streets of one of Rome’s major shopping hubs.

The autumn breeze nipped at Andrew’s newly exposed ears, and he shivered. Perhaps there was something to be said about trading up from his sweatshirt; absolutely _awesome_ design or not, it didn’t do much to keep out the cold. He considered digging out the new jacket they had just bought, but Dawn had been insistent that he waited until the entire outfit was complete.

She strode ahead of him, leading him down row after row of shops. “Come on!” she called over her shoulder. “This place is gonna close in, like, a half hour, and we still need to get you new shirts!”

“Why couldn’t we have gotten them in the last place?” Andrew whined, as he hurried after her.

“The selection at this one is better,” she replied. “I’m not letting you settle for just _okay_ , alright? We’re gonna do this makeover thing right.”

“This is a makeover? Does that mean we have to do a spa trip? ‘Cause I don’t really like strangers touching me –“

But Dawn had suddenly turned off the main road, and Andrew had to pivot on his heel to chase after her.

“Where are we going, exactly?” he gasped out, once he’d caught up.

“Here,” she replied cheerfully. “The best of Roman fashion – affordable, yet stylish!”

Dawn had stopped in front a large storefront that opened onto the side street with wide, double doors. The display window exhibited several posed mannequins wearing slimming sweaters in a surprisingly wide array of colors. Andrew peered up at them warily, already mentally comparing himself to the tall, poised figures.

“Come on!” Dawn urged, bouncing forward to pull open the door and step inside. “They should have some _really_ good stuff here!”

“I don’t—“

“Come _on_!”

Obediently, Andrew followed her inside. As the door swung shut behind them, Dawn shrugged off her jacket and tucked it under her arm, but Andrew, still shivering slightly from the outside chill, pulled his sweatshirt closer in around him.

He peered nervously about the brightly lit store; it was tidy, and, like every other store Dawn had dragged him into, obviously much more high end than he was used to. Back in Sunnydale, he’d never even spent much time at the simple, suburban strip mall. The most that Andrew’s aunt could provide for him on her single retail income was pickings from the local thrift store – that, and the occasional holiday splurge on the internet because he simply _had_ to have a United Federation of Planets beanie. Of course, his Watcher’s salary took more than enough care of him now, but that didn’t change the fact that it still felt _odd_ to be in a place like this.

Dawn led the way down the rows of shelves, and Andrew trailed after her like a fidgety shadow, his eyes still darting around the store. By the far wall on the right, there was a circle rack of men’s shirts, and Dawn made straight for it.

“Great!” she announced, and began to rifle through the rack with quick fingers. “I _told_ you there was so much more selection here – just look at all the colors!”

It was true; the rack in question seemed to span the entire gradient of a rainbow, and beyond. And while Dawn seemed content to sort through the more neutral colors, she was more than occupied comparing about thirteen different shades of deep green. Andrew uncertainly flipped through a few purples, his fingers worrying the hem of the fabric.

“I think you would look really good in this,” Dawn said, and half pulled a forest green long-sleeve shirt from the rack. But then she paused, peering at him again. “ . . . Nah,” she decided. “Blue suits you best.” She spun the rack to the mix of navies.

Andrew wasn’t entirely sure what she was looking for, so he left her to it. He trusted Dawn’s judgment; she was cool, and had good taste.

But when she held up the next shirt to him – this one, a V-neck of mid-shade steel blue – he frowned.

“It has short sleeves,” he protested.

“ . . . And?”

Andrew shrugged and crossed his arms uncomfortably. “I . . . I just don’t look that good in short sleeves,” he muttered. “My arms aren’t muscular enough. They’re kinda skinny.”

Dawn arched an eyebrow. “Who said you need buff arms to pull off a T-shirt?”

He shrugged again, picking at the collar of his sweatshirt. “ . . . Wolverine never had scrawny arms.”

“Well, we can’t all be Wolverine, can we?” Dawn retorted. “You don’t have to look like a comic book character to look good in a T-shirt. _I_ don’t have buff arms, and I think this top looks great on me!” She gestured at her white tank. It did look good on her.

He scowled. “But you’re a _girl_.”

“Well, _yeah_ ,” Dawn replied, rolling her eyes. “But it’s not like girls don’t have an image to live up to, too. Am I as busty as _her_?” She jabbed her thumb at the wall, where the image of a model draped provocatively over a park bench was plastered above the shelves.

“No,” Andrew admitted. “But you look really cool! You’re, like . . . you’re _Dawn_!”

“ _Exactly_ ,” she said. “And you’re _Andrew_. What you wear – it’s not about trying to be some beefy, comic-book hunk. Your clothes should be about, like, being whoyou are.”

Andrew still looked a little wary. He peered uncertainly at the shirt in Dawn’s hand, and twisted the hem of his hoodie.

Dawn sighed. “Look, I’m not gonna _force_ you to buy anything. It’s just, like . . . well, why don’t you just try it?”

“ . . . Okay,” Andrew said finally. “But, um . . . maybe I could try the other neckline instead?” He pointed at the shirt that had been hanging next to the one Dawn selected; it was the same color and style, but the neck, instead of being a ‘V’, was a scoop-cut.

Dawn glanced at it, then back at him. She smiled.

“Good idea.”

* * *

They had just barely made it past the door of their flat when Dawn dumped the bags she was carrying into Andrew’s arms and pushed him toward the guestroom where he’d been staying.

“Put it on!” she said excitedly. “Come on! Get dressed – let’s see it all together!”

Startled, Andrew managed to drop half the bags. “N-now?” he stammered, scrambling to gather up the bags again. “But I have to get to evening training in twenty minutes!”

“Well, then you can show off your new super-cool style at training, can’t you?” Dawn replied. “Come on – I need to _see_!”

She shoved him into his room, and swung the door shut behind him.

Andrew just stood there, bewildered.

“Oh, I’ll get my camera!” Dawn called through the door. “I’ve never done a proper makeover before . . . I should get a picture!” He heard her scamper off.

After a moment, Andrew recovered. He dropped the bags on his bed and began to sort through them. Between the ten different stores they had visited, they had pulled together enough for about three full new outfits.  

Andrew selected a dark pair of bootcut jeans and threaded a brown worn leather belt through the loops, deciding quickly that they were by far the _coolest_ articles they’d bought. The shirts, however, made him pause. Besides the steel blue T-shirt, he’d also gotten two of the long-sleeve variety – one purple, and one green. He hesitated, indecisive.

Ultimately, he picked up the T-shirt. Dawn was right; blue did suit him best. He shrugged the shirt over his head and smoothed it down. There wasn’t a mirror in the room, but when he glanced down at his torso, he thought it fit his figure fairly well – except . . .

Self consciously, he crossed his arms, fingers splayed out over top, as if to cover his biceps with his hands. 

Andrew turned back to the bags on his bed and rifled through them. When he didn’t find what he was looking for, he frowned, and dumped everything on the floor. But as he flipped through the strewn clothing, he only scowled deeper.

“ _Daawn_!” he called out. “Did I leave the jacket out there?”

“Huh?” came the response. “Oh, yeah, it’s right here. You dropped it. Also, I found the best thing to finish off your outfit!”

Andrew cracked open the door and peered outside. “ . . . What is it?”

Dawn was leaning against the wall of the hallway, her camera hanging from the wrist of her right hand. In her other fist, she clenched something that Andrew couldn’t quite make out, and at her feet, lay the missing bag. When Andrew pulled open the door, she straightened, and her face lit up.

“Ooh, let me see!”

She caught his wrist and pulled him from the room, causing him to stumble slightly. Andrew hastened to straighten himself, and Dawn stepped back to gaze at him appraisingly.

“ _Perfect_ ,” she declared. “Absolutely perfect. Well – almost. Just one last thing.”

“What--?”

But Dawn had already stepped around him and slipped something around his neck. Andrew craned to try to get a glimpse of it.

“Oh, hey – it’s my Rebel Alliance necklace!” he said, in delighted recognition. “I’ve been looking for that for a _week_! How’d you find it?” He fingered the necklace wonderingly; it was a simple chrome pendant cut into the shape of the Rebel Alliance insignia and hung from a black cord.

“It was under the couch – with my camera,” she answered. “I thought it was a good final touch.”

“It’s my _favorite_ necklace!” he told her.

“Why am I not surprised?” Dawn said, sounding amused.

“So, um, I look good?” Andrew asked. Anxiously, he gripped at his arms again.

“You look _awesome_ ,” she assured him.

“Really?”

“ _Really_. Seriously, come look!” She tugged him down the hallway, in the direction of the bathroom.

“W-wait!” Andrew protested. “Can’t I put on the jacket first?”

“After! You need to look, and then we need to take pictures with and without the jacket – it’ll be a photoshoot!”

Andrew looked uncertain, but when Dawn pushed open the door to the bathroom and gestured him forward, he obediently stepped inside.

“So,” Dawn said, a small smile twitching at her lips. “What do you think?”

Andrew turned to the mirror.

For a moment, he just stared at his reflection, silent and unblinking. One hand fell away from covering his bicep, and he ran his thumb along the edge of the pendant.

Then – a slow grin began to spread across his face, and he let out a delighted sound that was dangerously close to a squeak.  

“I look _cool_!” he announced. “Like – like, badass! Hey, if I got a vest, I could be like Han Solo! Can we do that?”

“No!” Dawn retorted, sounded affronted. “No vests!”

“What about a satchel, like Indiana Jones?”

Dawn shot him an incredulous stare. “No!”

Andrew scowled petulantly. “Why are you ruining my dreams of being Harrison Ford?”

“Andrew, look at yourself! You don’t _need_ to be Harrison Ford!”

With a firm hand on his shoulder, she turned him back to the mirror.

And Andrew looked.

The jeans were just as awesome as he’d imagined them to be, and the low rise cut exposed the worn leather of the belt just below the hem of his shirt. He didn’t quite fill out the sleeves of the shirt, but the way the fabric draped around his shoulders was casual and comfortable. The Rebel Alliance pendant rested, cold and heavy, against his collarbone. 

Andrew let his hands fall to his sides.

The cut of the outfit suited his small frame; Wolverine would have looked boxy in the same shirt. And while Harrison Ford’s eyes were undeniably _awesome_ , Andrew was certain that they would not have complimented the blue fabric as well as his own did.

Andrew turned back to Dawn, glowing. “I really am _cool_?” he said wonderingly.

“Best dressed Watcher-nerd I’ve ever seen,” Dawn told him.

He beamed.

 


	4. Spike

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: None!

Just as with every other time he had visited Andrew’s apartment, Spike was enveloped in the warm scent of baking the moment he stepped onto the floor. Today, the air was heavy with almond and sugar. Spike inhaled appreciatively. Liquid diet or not, there was no denying the kid was _good_. It kind of made up for having to play courier on a perfectly good Friday night . . . mostly. As long as he didn’t get roped into another hour-long lecture about how B’Elanna Torres was the most wonderful being to ever grace science fiction television – that had happened last time. 

With a silent prayer that the kid was in a slightly less talkative mood today, Spike shifted the heavy tome tucked under his arm, and knocked at the door.

“Oh – hold on! I’m coming! I’m coming!”

Within the apartment, there was a shuffle of movement – then a loud _thud_ and a startled squeal. When Andrew opened the door, he was sulkily massaging one knee.

Spike lifted an eyebrow.

“Tripped,” Andrew muttered, scowling at a treacherous sneaker that lay in the entry hall.

“Ah,” Spike replied.

Andrew straightened himself and assumed an expression he clearly thought was dignified. “Anyway, why’re you here? I mean, uh, not that you’re not welcome, but uh, I didn’t expect . . .“

“Buffy sent me – said to give you this.” He held out the book. “Needs translatin’.”

Andrew took the book and peered curiously at the embossed gold characters adorning the thick cover. “It’s in Polgara,” he said. “Yeah, I can do that. How much does she want translated?”

“The third section, she said. That’s all I know.”

Andrew flipped through the pages. “I can get that done tomorrow evening,” he promised. “Hey – why don’t you come in for a second? I have something for Buffy, too, so maybe you can bring it back to her? I mean, if you don’t mind.”

“What – another translation?” Spike asked.

“No – I borrowed her _Grey’s Anatomy_ DVD’s.”

Spike considered telling Andrew that he wasn’t some messenger pigeon – the demon text didn’t count; that was official evil-fighting business – but finally he sighed, deciding that he was out here already as it was, and he might as well look long-suffering while he was at it. “Yeah, sure. Bring it here.” Soap operas were a very serious business, after all.

He stepped through the doorway, and Andrew darted off to retrieve the DVD’s.

Andrew’s apartment was, predictably, cluttered and nerdy. It was a small place, barely more than a studio, and it seemed that every square inch was covered with some sort of geeky paraphernalia. The windowsill was crammed with at least fifty action figures; a poster pinned to the back of the front door declared “THE REBEL ALLIANCE WANTS _YOU_ ”; even the ceiling was decorated with an entire fleet of hanging Federation starships and Klingon birds-of-prey. And the organization of the apartment seemed to follow one simple rule: chaos reigned. To make his way halfway down the entrance hall, Spike had to step over a plastic lightsaber, three demon texts, and an inside-out sweatshirt that had been strewn across the floor.

The only exception to the disorder was the kitchen, which was almost immaculately clean. A large mixing bowl of chocolate buttercream frosting stood at the corner of the counter, and a dirty spatula and a bowl scraper lay in the sink, but every surface had been scrubbed to a polish, and all the utensils and appliances – from the TARDIS teapot to the 20-sided die decorative bowls – were carefully placed out of the way.

Spike stepped into the kitchen; it was considerably less treacherous than the hallway outside. Heat emanated from the oven, and, here, the warm, saccharine scent was almost intoxicating. He peered curiously at the window of the oven, but, unable to make anything out without the inside light clicked on, he opted instead to run his finger through a dollop of buttercream on the rim of the bowl. He tasted it; the buttercream was smooth and light, exactly as a good buttercream should be. The flavor of vanilla was delicate – just a little more subtle than it had been in the buttercream Andrew had used on Dawn’s birthday cake last week. It was a nice adjustment.

“Okay, here we go . . . I think I have all the discs in order?”

Andrew had returned, a box set of DVD’s in hand. He frowned at the box for a moment, considering, then gave a little half-shrug, and handed it to Spike. “Shouldn’t be too hard to fix if it’s not,” he decided.

Spike nodded. _Grey’s Anatomy_ had nothing on _Passions_ anyway.

“And, um, sorry about the mess,” Andrew added with a nod at the dishes in the sink, apparently oblivious to the disaster zone of the living room behind him. “You caught me in the middle of baking.”

“I noticed. What’re you making?”

Andrew brightened immediately, clearly thrilled to be encouraged to discuss his culinary endeavors. “Macarons,” he replied proudly. “With buttercream filling! I mean, I also considered a ganache, but I didn’t really want it to be so sweet – not this time, at least – and I like the texture a bit better, you know?”

“Buttercream’s good – versatile,” Spike agreed, with a slight, approving nod. “Any particular occasion? Who gets to eat ‘em?”

He hoped Andrew wouldn’t say they were for yet another one of those baking competitions he always seemed to be entering these days; the gang was sharply feeling the loss of redirected baked goods.

But to Spike’s surprise, Andrew suddenly ducked his head, and the tips of his ears went pink.

“Um . . . it’s for a date.”

Spike’s eyebrow’s arched. “A date?” he echoed – surprised, but not wholly incredulous. “Really?”

Andrew nodded and fiddled with the hem of his shirt, clearly fighting back a grin. “Y-yeah,” he said. “I met a guy at the bookstore – you know, the independent bookstore by the BART station? Well, um, they have an _amazing_ selection of single-issue comics, so I go there on Wednesdays to get the new stuff, and I guess his favorite sports magazine comes out on Wednesdays, so we kept running into each other. Last week he asked me to coffee, and, um . . . it went well. _Really_ well.” Andrew was blushing fully now. “Anyway, he mentioned that he liked macarons, and we were supposed to go for dinner together tonight, so I thought I’d surprise him.”

Spike crossed his arms and leaned back against the counter, gazing at him appraisingly. Andrew’s hands were still twisting in the hem of his shirt, and he kept shifting his weight from his heels to the balls of his feet and back again. But a shy smile was tugging incessantly at his lips, and he was beaming at the tiles even as he ducked his gaze. The kid looked happy.

It was good to see. When the Scoobies’ base of operations had shifted back to San Francisco, Andrew had followed willingly enough, but Spike had always had the sense the kid had felt a little out of sorts about the whole thing. Moves seemed to be tough on him; Andrew would shut himself up in his new place and throw himself into whatever responsibilities the gang gave him with a single-minded fervor. For someone who _could_ go out in the day, Andrew had spent enough time indoors to rival a vamp. And while in the two months that he’d been back in San Francisco, Andrew had begun to stretch his boundaries again, he hadn’t quite reached the level of comfort Spike had seen him in in Rome. This date could be a start.

“Macarons on the second date? Lucky guy,” Spike said finally.

Andrew glanced up, and grinned.

A sudden, loud _buzz_ directly behind Spike made him start, and if his heart had still been working, it would have skipped a few beats just then.

But Andrew perked up. “The macarons are done!” he announced brightly, and pulled a pair of floral oven mitts out of the top drawer.

Spike stepped aside to give Andrew access to the oven, thinking darkly that no oven timer had any right to be so loud.

“I’d let you’d have one, but it’ll take a bit for them to cool,” Andrew said. “’Cause it’s buttercream, you know, it’ll melt, and I dunno if you wanna wait around – . . . oh no.”

Andrew had opened the oven, and his face promptly fell.

Spike peered around the oven door. The macarons lay on their baking sheet in perfect circles, each about a half-centimeter thick and a lovely shade of pastel pink – but their smooth, eggshell-thin crusts had all cracked, and there were no little ruffles around the bottoms.

Andrew dropped the tray on the stove top, pouting. “I did it right _before_ ,” he moaned. “I don’t know what I did wrong this time!”

“I’m sure they’ll still taste fine enough,” Spike said, with a small shrug. “Don’t think your beau would mind.”

“I can’t give him macarons that are _cracked_!” Andrew positively wailed. “I’m supposed to impress him, and they’re cracked! He’s going to think I was lying about knowing how to bake!” His lower lip trembled.

Spike heaved a sigh. It was Friday evening; the sun had just gone down, and he had the whole of San Francisco at his fingertips. If he left now, he could catch up with Buffy and join her on patrol, or he could track down that new poker ring that was supposed to have cropped up by the docks.

But Andrew looked absolutely miserable; his shoulders had slumped, and he was poking morosely at one of the macarons with a gloved hand.

And so, cursing his ever-troublesome soul, Spike pulled off his coat and pushed up sleeves. “When do you have to leave for the date?”

“Two hours – why?”

Spike considered this. “It’ll be tight, but doable.”

“What’s doable?” Andrew asked, his voice inching up toward a whine again. “What are you talking about?”

“ _Your macarons_ ,” he replied, with forced patience. “It’s a simple ‘nough fix. You overmixed the batter. So I’ll show you how to do it right, and we’ll whip up a new batch before you have to go.”

The pout went out of Andrew’s expression immediately, and instead, he stared up at Spike with a renewed, wide-eyed reverence. “You . . . you will?”

“That’s what I said, didn’t I? You got the ingredients for a second batch?”

“Yeah – I’ll get them!” Andrew began to bustle about the kitchen, throwing open cupboards and pulling out bags of flour and sugar. He placed everything on the counter next to Spike. “So, um . . . you know how to make macarons?”

“When you’ve been around as long as I have, you pick up a few things,” Spike said.

“Like macarons?”

“Yeah. Like macarons.”

“Oh . . . well, thank you,” Andrew added, still gazing at Spike with raptured wonderment.

Spike just shrugged and pushed the white sugar back into Andrew’s arms. “Yeah. Sure. You go get started on the meringue; I’ll sift.”

Enthusiastically, Andrew nodded.

Spike pulled up the bag of confectioner’s sugar and dipped in one of Andrew’s ridiculous R2-D2-themed measuring cups. He hoped that he remembered how to do this right – it had been some time since the last time he’d been struck by the fancy to make macarons. Too much work to be worth it when your tastebuds were dulled by the whole undead thing. But the principle was still fairly simple: beat, sift, fold, pipe. Should be like riding a bike.

Sugar and ground almonds went into the sifter. Spike cranked the handle and tapped the metal of the bowl at occasional intervals, watching the mixture carefully to check that it was smooth and light. For a moment, silence descended on the kitchen; Andrew, apparently determined to do it right this time, was single-mindedly focused on his meringue.

The last of the dry mixture had fallen through the sifter when Andrew reemerged at Spike’s right elbow, peering concernedly at the meringue in his own bowl.

“Um . . . here you go. I-I think that’s whipped enough.” He didn’t sound entirely sure.

Spike took the bowl from him and glanced down at the white peaks. “You think it’s firm enough? So, if I flip this bowl, it’ll all stay put?”

“I think so?”

Spike nodded. Then he promptly turned the bowl upside down, directly over Andrew’s head.

Andrew shrieked and leapt out of the way – but just as Spike had described, not one drop fell from the bowl. Satisfied, Spike placed the meringue back on the counter.

“ _Spiiiiiike_!” Andrew wailed, hands still hovering over his head. “I have a _date_! I already did my hair – why would you do that? What if it’d still been loose?”

“I _know_ you know how to whip a meringue,” Spike replied simply.

Andrew paused, and tilted his head. “ . . . So, you’re saying that I should have trusted myself?”

“Somethin’ like that.”

A small, self-conscious smile twitched at the corner of Andrew’s lips.

“Here.” Spike stepped aside and pushed the bowls in front of Andrew. “Start folding ‘em together. I’ll let you know when you’re good.”

“O-okay.” Andrew still looked a little unsure of himself, but he bravely squared his shoulders and rolled up his sleeves. With a rubber spatula, he scraped a little of the almond and sugar into the meringue and began to delicately mix them together.

Spike crossed his arms and leaned back against the counter, watching Andrew work. Every so often, Andrew would pause and glance up questioningly at him, but Spike would just gesture for him to continue with a lazy hand.

“You know that’s nowhere _near_ done,” he said exasperatedly, when Andrew did this for the fourth time. “C’mon, don’t completely lose your head.”

Properly chastised, Andrew scraped down the batter from the sides of the bowls and folded the mixture again.

Finally, Spike reached out and placed one long finger on the tip of the spatula’s handle, effectively halting Andrew’s hand. Andrew froze.

“Lift it up,” Spike instructed.

Obediently, Andrew lifted the spatula from the mixture, and Spike watched as the batter dripped from the rubber end.

“See there, how it makes a thick ribbon that flattens out a bit in the bowl? That’s what you want.”

“So . . . it’s done?” Andrew said, peering down at the batter.

“Should be, yeah.”

Andrew nodded seriously and pressed the rubber spatula down against the batter, studying the consistency. Spike watched Andrew’s forehead crinkle as he committed the batter to memory, and he had to bite back a small smile – that was an expression Andrew reserved onlyfor the kitchen. Even the kid’s Star Trek fanfiction didn’t earn the same look of concentration.

Finally, Andrew straightened. “So . . . um, I guess we should pipe it and let it rest now, right?” he said, watching Spike anxiously.

Spike, however, just lifted an eyebrow. “ _You’re_ the baker. I only said I’d help you beat the batter.”

“Oh, well . . . “ Andrew swallowed and nodded firmly, mostly to himself. “Okay. Yeah, I-I’ll pipe it now, and let it rest, and then we’ll bake them!”

“That’s the spirit.”

Fifteen minutes later, a new baking sheet had been lined with parchment paper and dotted with small dollops of batter. The sheet lay on the stovetop, next to the cracked macarons, and the remaining equipment had been rinsed and stacked in the drying rack next to the sink.

Andrew was sitting on the counter now, kicking his legs restlessly with a mug of hot chocolate set beside him. Spike had found a comfortable section of the wall to lean up against. He wasn’t entirely sure why he was still here – the boy could pop a tray in the oven on his own – but, he decided as he nursed his own mug of hot chocolate, there was no real need to reflect on it.

“He’s like really big and _strong_ but like . . . really sweet, you know? Like, post-serum Steve Rogers,” Andrew was saying, a lopsided grin plastered across his face. “All muscle and brawn, but still the same guy with so much heart that military handpicked him–“

“Your date is in the military?” Spike said, bemused.

“Huh? No, he’s a middle school gym teacher.”

“Ah.”

“If _I_ had a gym teacher like that,” Andrew added. “Maybe I wouldn’t have hated gym class so much back in school. He’s really cute, you know?”

“You’ve mentioned,” Spike replied wryly.

Andrew nodded absently, and drummed his fingers against the countertop in an uneven staccato. “And he said I was _cool_ ,” he continued. “He was, like, really impressed when I talked about cooking – he said he wanted to try something I made.”

“Reasonable aspiration.”

“Yeah, well . . . maybe I shouldn’t have decided to make macarons,” Andrew muttered. “Done something I’m really good at, instead – like my cannoli or something. But he said he liked macarons, and I just wanted to impress him . . .” He made a vague, uncertain shrug. “I’m really lucky you dropped by. You, like, _saved me_.”

He was staring at Spike with reverent gratitude again. Spike sighed and gave a noncommittal wave of one hand.

“You had most of it under control,” he said. “Just gave you a small pointer is all.”

But to Spike’s surprise, Andrew’s expression clouded over, and his fidgeting visibly faltered.

“Yeah, but, like . . . cooking is what I’m supposed to be _good at_ , you know?” he said, sounding dejected. “Back in Sunnydale, it’s what impressed people. Everything else, I was just _okay_ at. Tucker had better grades than me, and Jonathan had the bigger Star Trek collection. Even demon summoning – that was my _job_ as a supervillain, but Warren always said it was too bad Tucker wasn’t around.” He scowled at the ground. “With cooking . . . it was easy, and things came out good, and no one was better than me at it. But maybe I’m not that good at cooking after all.”

Spike shot him an incredulous stare. “What, because you cracked a couple cookies?”

“It’s not just the macarons!” Andrew protested. “Yesterday, my chicken cordon bleu was dry! And the day before, my four raspberry soufflés _all_ collapsed! It’s just not _working_!” As he spoke, his voice crept steadily upwards; he finished his last syllable on a positive wail.

Spike heaved a heavy sigh and took a long, fortifying drink from his hot chocolate.

“Look, Andrew,” he said finally. “Talent isn’t about being born with a magic hand or somethin’. It’s about having the passion to stick with it despite the learning curve. So what if you haven’t learned all the techniques yet? You’re decent at cooking ‘cause you care about food, so you pay attention to what flavors work well together and which don’t – you got the instinct. But that doesn’t mean it’s not gonna take time and practice and cracked cookies.”

“But if I have the instinct, isn’t it supposed to be easier?” Andrew insisted. “I keep trying, but I keep screwing up!” 

“Instinct only gets you so far,” Spike replied, with a shrug. “And that’s true not just for cooking – whether you’re talkin’ about baking or summoning demons or even slaying, ‘ability’ is nine parts elbow grease. That’s where passion comes in – you gotta have the drive to put in the work.” He paused, and lifted one eyebrow, gazing pointedly at Andrew’s Star Treksocks. “And can’t say I’ve met someone with more _passion_ than you.”

His tone was amused, slightly sardonic, but there was gentleness in his expression.

Andrew’s shoulders slumped. “So I’ve got the instinct and the passion. But _you_ could still make the macarons, and _I_ couldn’t.”

Spike resisted the urge to groan. The kid seemed determined to make this whole uplifting heart-to-heart thing as difficult as he could. But Spike had already sacrificed his dignity by spending his Friday evening in an apartment with goddamn _starships_ hanging from the ceiling, so by the Powers That Be, he was gonna do this pep talk right.

“Taste the buttercream,” he directed, with a small jerk of his head towards the bowl.

Andrew looked at him perplexedly, and Spike reached over and pushed the bowl in his direction.

“Go on.”

Hesitantly, Andrew scooped up a little of the frosting on his index finger and brought it to his lips, still watching Spike.

“It’s good, huh?”

Slowly, Andrew nodded.

“What recipe did you use?”

“Mine,” Andrew replied. “I-I came up with it myself.”

Spike nodded, and folded his arms. “It’s not the same recipe that you used on Dawn’s cake, though, is it? Tastes different.”

“Wait, you tasted this—?”

“Had a little taste when you were getting the DVD’s,” he said. “But that’s not the point. Different recipe, yeah?”

“I altered it a bit,” Andrew admitted.

“Why? Was there something wrong with the old recipe?”

“No – I just thought I could make it better.”

“ _Exactly_.”

Andrew frowned, confused.

“You took a recipe that was fine on its own and changed it ‘cause you wanted it to be _better_ ,” Spike said, pushing himself up from the wall to fix Andrew with an intent stare. “That’s _passion_.” For emphasis, he pointed one finger at Andrew’s chest, directly at his heart. “I don’t have that passion, not for cooking. I whip up a decent buttercream, and I leave well enough alone. And sure, I can make an acceptable macaron – but now so can you, and it’s you who’s gonna use your passion to perfect‘em. You’re not gonna settle for a decent cookie when you care enough to make a better one.”

Andrew gazed up at Spike, his eyes wide and just a little bit hopeful. “So . . . you really don’t think I’m a bad cook?”

“Better’n me, that’s for sure.”

Hesitantly, Andrew smiled.

Spike just let out a soft snort and dropped his empty mug into the sink. Knew they’d get there eventually.

* * *

By the time the macarons had been baked, cooled, and filled, Andrew was running late. He tore through his apartment like a panicky whirlwind, tossing inside-out sweatshirts and stray socks in every direction.

“ _Spiiiiiiike_!” he wailed from the living room, where he was crouched on the ground, peering under the couch. “Have you seen my jacket?”

“You mean that one?” Spike pointed at forest green coat that had been draped over the side of the coffee table.

Andrew brightened and bounced back onto his feet. “Oh, yeah – thanks!” He slipped the jacket on over his shoulders, then darted off again, still wearing only one shoe.

Spike rolled his eyes and placed the last macaron in the small white box that Andrew had fished out of one of his cupboards. This second batch had come out picture-perfect, with smooth, glossy shells and adorable ruffled feet lining the bottoms. They tasted good, too – he and Andrew had each appropriated a macaron for the extremely important practice of goods sampling, and they’d found that the crusts were thin, with a soft center and a delicate flavor. Andrew had looked quite pleased with himself.

Finally, Andrew returned to the kitchen, dressed in his dark green jacket, a charcoal grey T-shirt, and, thankfully, two shoes. A messenger bag was slung over one shoulder.

“Got everything?” Spike asked, as he passed over the box of macarons.

“I-I think so,” Andrew replied, taking the box and nervously peering into his messenger bag. “Yeah, that’s everything.”

“Then get going already,” Spike told him, with a nod at the door.

“Yeah, okay – just one second.”

Andrew opened the box and pulled out two macarons. He handed them to Spike.

“For you,” he said, with a small, asymmetric smile. “’Cause . . . thanks.”

Spike shrugged, but he didn’t reject the cookies. “Yeah, sure.”

It really hadn’t been the worst start to a Friday evening; the night was still young, and now he had a pair of excellently executed macarons. It wasn’t like anyone had to know about the indignity of using R2-D2 measuring cups.

“And, uh, feel free to hang around a bit longer if you want,” Andrew added. “Just lock up when you leave, okay?”

But Spike snorted, pulling on his own jacket and tucking Buffy’s _Grey’s Anatomy_ DVD’s under one arm. “Thanks, but it’s a bit nerdier than my idea of a hangout – no offense. I’m leaving, too.”

“Oh, okay. So, let’s go?”

Spike nodded and accompanied Andrew downstairs.

Outside the door of Andrew’s apartment complex, they paused.

“I’m gonna go head to the docks,” Spike said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder, in the opposite direction of the BART station.

“Okay,” Andrew replied, and hoisted the messenger bag up on his shoulder. “Well, it was awesome to have you around, and thanks again for saving my honor as a baker. I’ll see you later!” Before Spike had a chance to respond, Andrew suddenly bounced forward and planted a light kiss on one cheek, then the other.

Spike started slightly. He’d forgotten the kid had picked up that little custom during his stay in Rome – although, privately, he suspected Andrew only kept it up to mess with him. Spike didn’t remember him bothering the rest of the gang with the same type of goodbye all that often.

But Spike recovered himself and merely nodded curtly at Andrew. “Yeah. Good luck with your date.” He paused, and snorted. “Macarons on the second date. If the guy dumps you, I’ll bite him. For stupidity.”

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Andrew advised, zipping up his jacket and turning to head down the sidewalk. “He’s a Sunnydale veteran, too. He wouldn’t be scared to stake you if you tried – and I really don’t want you to be dusted.”

Spike lifted his eyebrows in faint surprise. “Sunnydale, huh? Do I know him?”

But Andrew had already vanished around the corner.

 


	5. Himself

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Some homophobic language.

The late morning light filtered through the skylight of the bakery’s kitchen, warming Andrew’s neck as he bent over the sink. An enormous pile of dirty pans towered on the counter beside him; Andrew snatched up the top pan and plunged it into the scalding, soapy water, with enough force to send a wave sloshing over the side of the sink and splashing onto the tile floor.

“Andrew! Watch what you’re doing!” a sharp voice snapped behind him.

Sheepishly, Andrew glanced up. “Sorry, Elena.”

The bakery owner just heaved a long-suffering sigh and rolled her eyes. “You’re going to have to mop that up; we can’t have anyone slip on it.”

“Yeah, I know – sorry.”

“ _Now_ , Andrew.”

“Yes, Elena!” He quickly stepped back from the sink and wiped his hands on his apron. With an apologetic grin, Andrew darted off to the closet at the back of the kitchen.

By the time he returned, mop in hand, Elena had pushed her sleeves up to her elbows and taken over sink duty. She stepped aside to allow Andrew to clean where she’d been standing.

“What’s up with you today, anyhow?” she asked, her tone half firm, half concerned. “You’re in a rush to get out today – do you have a date with the boyfriend or something?”

“No,” Andrew said brightly. “I’m meeting my long-lost brother!”

One of Elena’s eyebrows quirked upwards. “’Long-lost’?”

“Yeah – we lost touch a while back, but I finally tracked him down again, so we’re meeting up today for the first time in eight years!”

“ . . . Eight years, huh?”

Andrew nodded enthusiastically, then ducked his head as he pushed the mop after a puddle that was making its way under the sink.

But suddenly, there was an unexpected weight on the mop; Andrew looked up to see Elena’s hand resting on the handle. He blinked.

“Give me that,” Elena said simply.

“ . . . Huh?”

“Give me the mop,” she said again. “You get out of here – go meet your brother.”

Andrew stared at her. “ . . . Really?”

She shrugged. “Yeah – I got it.”

Andrew’s face split into an ear-to-ear grin, and he hastily shoved the mop into Elena’s hands. “Thank you _so_ much!” he said as he fumbled with the ties of his apron. “I really owe you one!”   

“Don’t worry – you’ll take morning shift tomorrow to make up for it.”

“You had me down for that anyway,” Andrew pointed out.

Elena just snorted and waved a hand dismissively. “Aren’t you gone yet?”

“Leaving now!” Andrew called from the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow! _Thank you!_ ”

* * *

After the destruction of Sunnydale, the distance that had grown between the Scoobies and their families over the years became only more pronounced. The chaos of the final days had scattered the town’s residents into the wind, and, afterwards, the drive to track down relatives again was almost non-existent. Willow’s half-hearted internet sleuthing dug up her mother’s credit card purchases in Portland over a year later – she said she’d been leery of casting a locator spell over such a wide area – and eighteen months after that, Xander’s parents had managed to get ahold of his new number to let him know they had made it out of town safely. That phone call had lasted exactly forty-eight seconds, and there had been no return call.

In that regard, Andrew and his family were no exception.

It had started with his aunt. She had never meant to have children – she didn’t have the means, or the support, or even the desire – and then, out of the blue, her nephews had showed up on her dilapidated porch, a single suitcase between the two of them. She had done what she could for them, but it was a strain on resources she didn’t have. She spent so much time trying to make ends meet that she was never around. Hell, she was so busy, she’d never even noticed that Sunnydale wasn’t a typical town. When Andrew called her from a payphone in Mexico and told her he was “world travelling with a friend”, she’d told him to be careful – but she’d also sounded relieved just to be free of the responsibility. She never knew he’d ever returned to Sunnydale.

And Tucker – the last time Andrew had seen his brother, they’d been standing outside the overstuffed car, and Andrew had wrapped Tucker in a rib-crushing hug, his own eyes screwed shut as he willed himself not to cry.

“I’m gonna miss you _so much_ ,” he’d lamented. “It’s gonna be so different without you!”

“Uh-huh,” Tucker had replied. “Can you let go now? I need to go.”

Obediently, Andrew pulled back. “You sure I can’t come with you? I can help you move into your dorm!”

“No. Stay here, Andrew. Besides, even if I needed help, there’s no room in the car.”

“Your brother will write to you from college,” their aunt had added kindly. “Won’t you, Tucker?”

“Sure,” Tucker replied.

He never had.

During his time in Rome, Andrew had appropriated some of the Council’s resources to track down his aunt, who was now apparently living somewhere in suburban Nevada. She’d been pleased to hear from him, happy to know he was well, and a little surprised to discover he’d found such a well-paying job in Rome. He offered to send over some of his earnings; she’d accepted gratefully.  

And yes, she supposed Tucker should be graduating university sometime soon, but no, she hadn’t heard from him. 

After that, they checked in with one another once every few months. But she’d still never been meant to have children, and her continued ignorance of supernatural phenomenon made it impossible for her to understand Andrew’s life. At least around the Scoobies, Andrew had company in his odd orphan status. It was easier, that way, not to focus on the blood relatives that were never around.

But then one afternoon, four years after the fall of Sunnydale, Andrew lay prone on his bed in his San Francisco apartment, his feet kicked up in the air and a laptop propped open in front of him.  There had been a rash of demon attacks in the Bay area recently – brutal maulings of the lethal variety, but with no obvious signatures to point to a particular species. Andrew scrolled through the search results and clicked on a document that compared the mythologies of Prio Motu and Hindu Kush demons.

His breath froze in his chest.

The paper was an academic master’s thesis from UC Berkley, and the author – _Tucker Wells_.

A hasty search through Berkley’s religious studies department confirmed that the graduate student Tucker Wells was indeed _the_ Tucker Wells; the profile picture that scowled up at him from the People Directory was _his brother_ , eight years older than Andrew had seen him last, now bearded and with glasses, but still heart-wrenchingly familiar.

Andrew felt lightheaded. His _brother_. It felt surreal; he could hardly think.

Somehow, he’d managed to send out a coherent email to the contact address listed on the Berkley directory, and – after three maddeningly slow days – he received a response.

Tucker was surprised to hear from Andrew – and sorry he hadn’t reached out to contact Andrew sooner after the ‘earthquake’ in Sunnydale; he’d just been so _busy_ with his degree, and it wasn’t like he had any idea where Andrew might have been, right? And no, he couldn’t really make it down to San Francisco, but if Andrew wanted to come meet him on campus, he supposed they could grab lunch or something.

Another short exchange of emails later, and they’d set up a time and date to meet for the first time in eight years.

* * *

Andrew arrived at Dwinelle Hall exactly two minutes to noon, and he ended up pacing restlessly outside the sixth-floor office Tucker had directed him to, staring unblinkingly at his watch. He couldn’t walk in early; Tucker had _office hours_ , and how cool was that?

One minute to noon. The door to the office opened and a student walked out, her lips pinched into a disgruntled expression. She met Andrew’s eyes, and he offered her a nervous smile. She scowled.

As the student stalked off, Andrew turned back to the door, feeling his stomach knot itself like a sailor’s riggings. He tugged at the hem of his shirt. What would he say to Tucker – what did you say to your brother for the first time in eight years? The last time Tucker had seen him, Andrew had been an awkward, gawky teenager whose prized possession was his 1979 Boba Fett action figure. And okay, sure, now he was an awkward, gawky _adult_ , and that Boba Fett action figure was still in mint condition, thank you very much, but he’d also been a Watcher and a baker, and he regularly offered his services in the struggle against the forces of evil. That had to count for something.

Maybe Andrew should have brought Tucker something from the bakery, to show him what sort of work he did now. A cannoli, or a lemon meringue cupcake . . . but then again, what if Tucker had gone vegan or something? Sure, the Tucker Andrew knew would never even consider veganism, but it _had_ been eight years, and it would have been rude to bring him something he couldn’t eat.

Then the minute hand in his watch finally hit twelve, and, heart hammering in his chest, Andrew knocked.

“Come in.”

He pushed open the door.

The office inside was small, and cozy; two desks were pressed up against the right-hand wall, and one more stood opposite them on the left. Stacks of papers and large tomes towered on the wooden surfaces, and an old microwave stood in one corner of the room. Only the furthest desk was occupied. As Andrew walked in, Tucker glanced up – and if it had been strange to see his photo on the UC Berkley directory, seeing Tucker in person was like being struck with a sudden sense of vertigo.

“H-hey,” Andrew said, assuming his best nonchalant expression. Nervous butterflies were still fluttering about in his belly, and he had to bite his cheek to suppress an ear-to-ear grin. He would have liked nothing better than to rush forward and throw his arms around his long-lost brother like Sam and Dean in the episode “Mystery Spot”, but Tucker had never been big on shows of affection.

“Oh. Andrew, hi.”

And suddenly, Andrew felt fifteen again; it was as if he’d just come home from a science fiction club meeting, and the house was cold – heat cost money – and Tucker looked up when the front porch creaked. _“Oh. You’re home. I’m working; keep it down, okay?_ ” If Andrew did manage to keep quiet, Tucker would let him do his homework in the living room, and with both of them there, the cold permeating the house was a little less noticeable.

Despite himself, Andrew felt a grin tug at his lips. “Hey,” he said again. “Um . . . hi.”

Tucker’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “Hi.”

Nervously, Andrew shoved his hands into his jeans pockets and peered around the room. He swallowed, casting his mind quickly for something meaningful to say. “So, um . . . this is your office?”

“Well, _yeah_.”

“It’s really cool!” he said. “You’re, like, a _professor –_ like Charles Xavier, but with more hair!” He turned slightly and gazed wonderingly out the window on the far wall; tall evergreens were growing out of the center of a paved roundabout outside, and across the street, a pair of students were hauling a stack of books into a smaller, residential-like building. “I’ve never been to college, you know,” Andrew added. “So, like . . . this is _really cool_.”

“Really.”

Andrew turned; Tucker was watching him, leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed in front of him. There was a small quirk of a smile at one corner of his lips. Suddenly, Andrew felt very small.

“Never?” Tucker said.

“Um . . . well.” Andrew shifted his weight on his heels and shrugged. “Um. I wasn’t offered as much financial aid as you were, and before I tried again . . . uh. Things came up.”

He wished he hadn’t mentioned it – _why_ had he brought it up? He was meeting Tucker for the first time in _eight years_ and the first thing he said was that he never made it to college.

Hastily, he rushed on: “I mean, it’s okay. I don’t need to – I work as a baker now.”

“ . . . You’re a baker.”

“Well, mostly I just do prep work and front-of-house stuff,” he clarified. “But Elena – that’s my boss – has been teaching me her recipes, and she’s, uh, been saying that she might officially take me on as an apprentice sometime soon.”

“A baker,” Tucker said again. He shook his head slightly. “Shouldn’t be surprised, I suppose. You always did spend a lot of time in the kitchen. Just never thought that would be what you’d _settle_ for.”

Andrew nodded enthusiastically, relieved that his brother understood. “Yeah – it was just, that’s what I’m really good at, you know? I do other cooking, too, but I like baking best – even if I do have to get up at three in the morning for early prep.”

Tucker glanced at Andrew, then stood up from his desk and leaned up against the bookshelf behind him. He crossed his arms; he looked regal, a king with the graduate office as his domain.

“Well, _I_ found funding for my entire academic career,” he said. “Bachelor’s from UC Santa Barbara, then came here for my master’s. And I’m defending my dissertation at the end of the semester – in two months, _I’ll_ have a doctorate.”

Andrew grinned. “That’s so awesome!”

“I know.”

“I read your master’s thesis,” he added. “It was _amazing_. I bet your dissertation is awesome, too.”

Tucker made a small sound of agreement. Then, he crouched down and reached under his desk to pull out a black shoulder bag. “Well, it’s my lunch break now, so I’m going to go get something to eat,” he said.

“Yeah, sure,” Andrew agreed. “Let’s go! Do you, um, have somewhere particular in mind?”

“Sure. I’ll show you.”

Tucker shouldered his bag, and, without looking to see if Andrew was following, led the way out of the office.

* * *

“So . . . erm . . . you like to have sushi for lunch?”

Andrew peered uncertainly down at his order sheet, a half-sized pencil clutched in one hand. Almost five dollars an order . . . and each order included only two pieces of nigiri, or three of sashimi. He swallowed. This restaurant certainly wasn’t of the same caliber as the all-you-can-eat place he and Buffy sometimes visited.

“Yeah,” Tucker replied, and lazily checked another box on his own sheet. “What – too expensive for you?”

Andrew shook his head hastily. “N-no, it’s fine! Great, really.”

Okay, admittedly it _was_ more than he usually spent on three days’ worth of lunch, but this is where his brother wanted to eat. He could splurge; he supposed he wasn’t really _that_ hungry anyway.

“So . . . um, you decided not to finish your undergraduate at California State?” he said quickly, eager to change the subject. “’Cause I looked for you there for a bit, but I guess you’d already transferred out.”

“Yeah,” Tucker replied. “UC Santa Barbara has a great religious studies program. It was a much better opportunity, so I switched after my first semester.”

“Oh . . . well, Aunt Katie and I wondered where you went.”

Tucker just shrugged. “Yeah, well, I was too busy to get in touch. You understand.”

“Yeah,” Andrew replied – although, privately he wondered if undergraduate students were really that much more busy than Watchers. Even when he’d been in charge of the training and protection and command of twenty-six superpowered women, he’d found time to call his aunt. Once every two months was still more often never.

But he forced a small smile. He couldn’t judge Tucker; maybe there had been something else going on as well. For all he knew, Tucker could have attracted the attention of a particularly nasty demon and had stayed out of contact to keep his family safe. That would be admirable.

“I’m really glad that I ran into your thesis, though,” Andrew went on finally. “It’s so cool to finally see you again. I can’t believe we’re almost living in the same city! It’s like destiny itself wanted to bring us together again.”

Tucker shrugged again. “San Francisco is close to Sunnydale. We just didn’t move that far away.”

“Oh – well, actually I spent about two years in Rome, you know.”

At that, Tucker glanced up from his order sheet, an odd expression crossing his face. “ . . . What?”

“Yeah!” Andrew replied, straightening under Tucker’s sudden attention. “I, uh, I had a job there for a while – it was a kind of like a supernatural counseling job, you know? I was a total Obi Wan Kanobi. But, uh, eventually my padawans went independent and self-governing, so I came back here. Sometimes they still call me for advice, though. They know I’ll always come through for them.”

Andrew wasn’t sure why he hesitated at saying the word “Slayer”; Tucker was well versed in demon lore and had to be aware of the sudden calling of Potentials across the globe. But something in Andrew held him back. An instinct from his Watcher days, he supposed – best not to leave any leads for malicious forces to follow back to his charges. Not that he thought Tucker was a malicious force, of course. But still. Instinct.

Tucker was still staring at him, and Andrew couldn’t quite decipher his expression. It was almost . . . irritated.

“I studied abroad for a semester,” Tucker said finally. “In Mexico.”

“Cool – where? I spent a year in Mexico, too!”

But to Andrew’s surprise, rather than looking enthused about the unexpected connection, Tucker suddenly scowled. “Mexico City,” he said. “In my sophomore year. What were _you_ doing in Mexico?”

“Er—“ Andrew fidgeted with his pencil. “Long story? It wasn’t that cool, though – studying abroad is _so_ much better.”

Tucker relaxed.

The waiter appeared behind Andrew just then, a water jug cradled in his hands. He filled the glasses on the table, and then reached out for their order sheets. With one last, pained glance at his paper, Andrew passed it over.

“Yeah, studying abroad was amazing for my career,” Tucker continued, as the waiter moved off again. “I did research on modern interpretations of the goddess Tlazolteotl while I was there, and I actually got a paper published on it during my undergrad. The journal had a pretty good ranking with the ERIH. Oh wait—“ he paused, and shot Andrew a meaningful glance. “You don’t know what the ERIH is, do you?”

“No, I do!” Andrew assured him. “They categorize journals by their influence on research, right?” At Tucker’s stunned expression, he explained: “I don’t write my own research, but I read papers because they’re really good in helping interpret some of the more esoteric demonology texts – that’s how I found your thesis!”

Tucker’s scowl had returned. “You’re still summoning demons?”

Andrew opened his mouth to say that no, he was using his expertise to aid in the fight _against_ evil – and when it came to demons that weren’t so evil, well, it was a little rude to summon them out of their daily lives, wasn’t it? But before he could get anything out, Tucker had rushed on:

“ _I_ ’ _ve_ managed to summon a Braznarc demon, you know. In the original Babylonian.”

Andrew blinked. “Er . . . that’s impressive? I haven’t summoned anything for a while – not since the Glarghk Guhl Kashmas’nik demon.”

Tucker sniffed dismissively. “Oh _those_ aren’t tough. Pretty easy to control, too. You just need to stay away from their needles.”

“I know; I just don’t want—“

“Demon summoning takes a real natural _instinct_ ,” Tucker continued, as if Andrew hadn’t said anything. “Its more than just chanting incantations and drawing summoning circles. It’s about inner _power_. Not everyone can get great.”

Awkwardly, Andrew shifted in his seat. Demon summoning was decidedly in the Not Cool category – he knew that now. Yeah, sometimes it was a fast way to get in touch with a demonic ally, but summoning circles just weren’t that reliable, and most demons were carrying cell phones nowadays anyway.

But Tucker was the older brother, and he’d had more than a decade of experience in hellish forces. Surely, he was aware of the risks.

Andrew swallowed. When Tucker paused to take a breath, he quickly jumped in: “Um . . . did you see the new Transformers movie?” 

Tucker blinked, clearly caught off-balance by the sudden change of subject.

“I saw it last week,” Andrew rushed on. “I – uh – I thought it was a little to focused on the humans. But the special effects were cool and the soundtrack was _awesome_.”

“You’re still into those kind of movies?” Tucker said, lifting an eyebrow. “Isn’t that for, I dunno, a _younger_ audience?”

“You loved Transformers!”

“Yeah, when I was _eight_.”

“That’s not true! You brought your action figures to college—“

Tucker cut him off with a hasty wave of his hand. “Yeah, whatever. _I Am Legend_ was a better movie this year – I brought my girlfriend to that.”

“You have a girlfriend!” Andrew exclaimed, perking up immediately. “What’s she like? You didn’t mention her before!”

“Oh, you know -- . . .” Tucker shrugged and leaned back in his chair with calculated nonchalance. “She’s hot as _hell_. Completely naggy and annoying, and it’s impossible to talk to her, but she’s _awesome_ in the sack, so that’s what matters.”

“ . . . I don’t get it. If you think she’s annoying, why are you dating her?”

“As I said: hot as _hell_.”

Andrew still looked dubious. “I suppose . . . I guess it just doesn’t sound like that much fun to me.”

“And what would you really know about girls?” Tucker retorted. “Are _you_ dating anyone?”

Andrew hesitated.

“Oh, um . . .” He twisted at a corner of his napkin and swallowed uncertainly.

Expectantly, Tucker lifted an eyebrow.

With a deep breath, Andrew squared his shoulders and shoved back the not-so-small part of him that wanted to hide under the table. This was his _brother._ “There’s this guy I’ve been seeing for about eight months,” he said finally. “Actually, look: I have a picture--!” He fished around his pocket for a moment, then pulled out his wallet and flipped it open. From behind his ID, he pulled out a small photograph – about four and half by three centimeters – and pushed it over to Tucker. He forced a nervous smile. “He’s cute, right?”

But Tucker wasn’t looking at the picture. His eyes were fixed on Andrew, and an odd expression had crossed his face. “ . . . So I was right about you in high school,” he said.

“Huh?”

“A _guy_? I always said you were gay as a maypole.” He let out a soft snort.

Andrew recoiled. The last time he heard that snort, he’d been seventeen, and Tucker had been standing in his bedroom door, arms crossed over his chest.

 _“Another_ _poster of Timothy Dalton_?” Tucker had said disbelievingly. He shook his head, and sniffed. “ _Could you even_ tr _y to act a little less gay_?” Andrew had stammeringly protested that he totally was _not_ gay – Timothy Dalton was just really cool – but Tucker simply shrugged. _“Yeah, whatever you say. But you keep acting like this, and you’re going to get in a lot of trouble one day. No one likes a fag.”_

Andrew heaved a steadying breath. Tucker had been young – he’d just been trying to warn Andrew against the dangers of drawing attention to himself. Andrew had been picked on a lot, and of course Tucker, as his older brother, would have been worried about the bullying getting worse if word got out that he might not be so straight. Tucker just hadn’t understood that his words could come off as hurtful.

Andrew forced another small smile and shrugged. “Oh . . . well, you were half-right, actually. I’m, uh, bi – not gay.”

Tucker lifted his eyebrows disbelievingly, but he offered Andrew an exaggerated, humoring nod. “Sure, whatever.”

Uncomfortable, Andrew hunched his shoulders. He wished Tucker would look somewhere else. “Um . . . well . . . if you wanted to, maybe we could do a double date sometime? We could meet each other’s partners that way . . .?”

“Yeah – not likely.”

“Oh.”

This wasn’t going well. Andrew started crumpling his napkin again.

When he’d imagined this meeting, hundreds of times over the past week, he’d envisioned something a little more . . . warm and enthusiastic. Sure, it’d been eight years, and their first conversation was bound to be a little awkward, but it seemed that everything Andrew said just bored or irritated Tucker. He dropped his gaze to the floor and tried very hard to ignore the burning in his throat.

Thankfully, as Andrew fell silent, Tucker seemed more than happy to pick up the conversation.

“But seriously, my girlfriend’s birthday is coming up next month, and she is going to be _insufferable_ ,” he continued. “She always wants to do so much shit around important dates, and if I don’t play along, she becomes a _hellbeast_ – no, worse. I can control hellbeasts.”

As Tucker continued on his tirade, Andrew nodded mutely, only half-listening. He felt awful. Tucker hadn’t been like this in high school . . . had he? His memories of his brother were warm. Sure, Tucker had always been too busy to pay much attention to Andrew, but he’d always been around. And okay, sometimes Tucker had spat sharp words at him or pushed him around, but that’s what brothers did, right? Didn’t mean he didn’t care about Andrew.

But as Andrew sank down in his chair, he realized that this feeling of smallness was horribly familiar. It’d been a long time since he’d felt like this, but it was still like tearing open a half-healed wound.

The chime of the door signaled the entrance of a new customer. Absently, Andrew’s gaze flickered over – but then, he started, and his eyes flew wide in recognition.

“Clem!” he said excitedly, cutting Tucker off mid-sentence.

Tucker glowered, but Andrew wasn’t paying attention anymore.

“Hey, Clem! Over here!”

At Andrew’s call, Clem glanced up. When his eyes fell on their table, he brightened, and a broad smile spread across his face. “Andrew?” he said. “Hey! Fancy meeting you here!”

Andrew beamed as Clem came over to stand by their table. The demon was dressed in a well-pressed suit, a scarlet red tie knotted neatly at his neck. It was a stark contrast to the oversized sweater Andrew had seen him in last, but Clem carried himself proudly; the look suited him.

“What are you doing here?” Andrew asked cheerfully, scooting over his chair to give Clem a little more room beside him.

“Oh, you know,” Clem replied. “The boss sent me to pick up his lunch. He’s a kappa demon, and he says that this place is the only one that does his sunomono right. Not really sure how that works – how do you mess up a cucumber salad?”

“Kappa demons can be very particular,” Andrew said sympathetically.

“Tell me about it. But it’s great to run into you!” Clem enthused. “And who’s this?” he added, turning to look at Tucker.

Tucker had been staring, slightly slack-jawed, but when Clem turned his attention on him, he quickly recovered. Drawing himself up to his full height, he puffed out his chest and significantly declared: “ _I_ am Tucker.”

Blank, Clem blinked.

“Tucker _Wells_?” Tucker added, sounding a little vexed.

“Oh! You must be Andrew’s brother!” Clem beamed and held out a hand. “It’s nice to meet you!”

Tucker ignored it. “You don’t know me? Tucker Wells, the summoner?”

When Clem just looked bewildered, Tucker glared.

“Seriously? I summoned and trained hellhounds when I was still in _high school_!”

“Oh, well, a lot of kids do that, actually,” Clem replied. “There was one girl in Seoul last week . . .” But then, spotting the expression on Tucker’s face, he trailed off and grinned, a little awkwardly. “But, hey, don’t let that get you down! It’s a great start to summoning career – keep up the good work!”

Tucker wasn’t placated. “But you know _Andrew_?”

“Well, yeah,” Clem said. “He works with the Slayer – the original Buffy Summers, that is. Most of my kind try to stay out of their way. But not me, of course! We’re cool, right, Andrew?”

“Right,” Andrew replied, and Clem grinned.

But at the same time, Andrew uncertainly glanced over at Tucker.  That old Watcher instinct was twisting in his belly again; if Tucker knew about Buffy, he might put two and two together about Andrew’s previous job in Rome. And while Buffy could look after herself, the Italy Squad alumni were still young and inexperienced. If someone were to track them down through Andrew . . .

Mentally, Andrew shook himself. His _brother_ was not a threat to his Slayers. Tucker may be sharp-tongued and little callous, and the way he talked about being _known_ dredged up uncomfortable memories of the year Andrew had spent in the Trio, but that didn’t mean he was dangerous. What reason would he have to after Italy Squad, anyhow?

But when Tucker just scowled and sank back in his chair, muttering: “don’t need to be known by any _Loose-Skinned demon_ anyway”, Andrew nevertheless heaved a sigh of relief. Tucker didn’t seem to have made the connection.

Clem watched Tucker for a moment, looking a little perplexed. But then he turned to Andrew, and said: “I’d love to stay and chat, but my boss will be pissed if I don’t get back in the next ten minutes. I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

Absently, Andrew nodded.

“Tell Buffy I said ‘hi’!” Clem added, then turned back to the counter at the front of the restaurant, where his takeout order was waiting.

As the door chimed, Tucker turned back to Andrew, a haughty expression pinching at his lips.

“You’re not even building a name for yourself,” he said disparagingly. “You’re riding the coattails of someone else’s fame.”

Andrew stared. The feeling of smallness that had begun to dissipate in Clem’s presence threatened to rise up again – but this time, Andrew shoved it back and set his jaw. “Why . . . why are you being so _mean_?”

“Hey, it’s not _my_ fault you haven’t made anything with your life,” Tucker retorted. “ _I_ did, but you just don’t care enough, obviously.”

And suddenly, Andrew felt anger rise in him like bile, burning at the back of his throat and making his eyes prickle with heat. “But that’s not true! I’m a baker, and I make really good cannoli, and I help fight evil in my free time, and I – I _like_ my life. I’m happy that you like your job, but I d-don’t want a PhD. I’d rather be a baker!”

But Tucker just snorted. “Clearly, ambition isn’t genetic. Or, are you _sure_ we’re related?” he leaned back, a sardonic smile twisting at his lips.

The waiter had reappeared, two white plates balanced on his right arm. But then, as he went to place their orders on the table, Andrew glanced up.

“Um,” he said. “Do you think I could actually have mine to go?”

Tucker started. “Wait – what?”

But Andrew ignored him.

“Both plates?” the waiter asked, admirably recovering from his surprise.

Andrew shook his head. “Just mine, thanks.”

“Would you also be wanting the check, sir?”

“Yes, please.”

The waiter nodded and took back Andrew’s plate.

Tucker was staring, open-mouthed. “What are you doing?” he hissed.

“Leaving,” Andrew replied.

“But I didn’t—“

“Why did you agree to meet with me?” he interrupted, fixing Tucker with a sad, but steady gaze.

“What – didn’t _you_ want to?” Tucker retorted.

“Yeah – you’re my brother, and I missed you! But . . .” Andrew trailed off, and visibly swallowed. “You didn’t miss _me_ at all, did you?”

“Look, I’m making the time to hang out with you—“

“And you’ve spent the whole time bragging!” Andrew cut him off, his voice rising. A few other restaurant-goers glanced up. “I haven’t heard from you in _eight years_! And – and it wasn’t just because you were busy, or you didn’t know where I was, was it?”

Tucker let out a dismissive snort and fixed Andrew with a pitying gaze. “Seriously, Andrew. I’m really sorry, but you expected me to know you were in Rome playing Jedi?”

Andrew’s Watcher instincts flared up again in his chest – and this time, he understood. Tucker sounded like Warren. He had the same sardonic smile, the same disparaging tone . . . Warren had apologized, too. And, in his mind, Andrew could still hear the cry Posey had let out as she crumpled to the ground, bloodied and unconscious. She’d been Andrew’s youngest Slayer, barely fifteen, and Warren had almost killed her.

And maybe Tucker had no reason to attack Italy Squad, but he wasn’t here for Andrew.

“You could have written _just once_ to Sunnydale,” he said stiffly. “You had four years before it was turned into a crater! But you – you just didn’t _care_!”

Tucker opened his mouth to reply, but Andrew didn’t give him the chance.

“You just brought me here to _show off_!” he pressed on. “Y-you’re giving me attention to – to use me!”

“Are you mad just because I said you weren’t ambitious?” Tucker retorted. “I’m just being honest.”

“No, you’re being mean. And I’m not going to stick around a – a _Dursely_!”

The waiter returned then, a plastic bag in one hand, and slid the check on the table. Andrew accepted the bag with a nod and threw down a few bills. Then, he stood up.

“If you ever decide you want to make amends, you know how to contact me. I have experience with the path to redemption. But otherwise . . . “ Andrew straightened his shoulders and lifted his chin. “You won’t hear from me again.”

Then he turned on his heel and walked out of the restaurant.


	6. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Very slight mention of past attempted rape.

Buffy shouldered her messenger bag, darkly cursing holiday hours. Living in San Francisco meant that it should not have been nearly so hard to find an open shop on Thanksgiving – it was a _city_ , right? Admittedly, maybe she shouldn’t have waited until she was literally on her way over to pick up the dinner wine she’d promised Andrew, but _seriously_. At least she’d found something, eventually. Even if she did have to strong-arm the owner into staying open an extra five minutes.

Sighing, Buffy adjusted her grip on the bottle and knocked sharply on Andrew’s apartment door.

The door swung open.

“Buffy, hi!” Andrew greeted brightly. A flour-dusted Batman apron was thrown over his dark blue T-shirt, and there appeared to be a smudge of cranberry sauce over his right eye. He grinned. “Come in, come in – ooh, you brought the wine! Great! Just put that over on the table, will you?”

He barely waited for her to step over the threshold before darting off to the kitchen again; something had started beeping.

The holiday had seen a massive change come over Andrew’s apartment. Sure, starships still hung from the ceiling, and no one had yet managed to convince him to get rid of the incredibly tacky lightsabers crossed on the wall, but the usual clutter had been forced into some semblance of festive order. From the entrance hall, Buffy could see that comic books stood in a neat stack at the corner of the coffee table, artificial autumn leaves hung from the bookshelves, and the complete collection of _Star Trek_ captain standees had been moved to make room for a large wooden dining table that Andrew had borrowed from down the hall.

Voices from the living room betrayed the presence of other guests, and as Buffy shut the door behind her, she heard Dawn call out: “Who is it, Andrew?”

“It’s Buffy!”

A moment later, Dawn’s eager face appeared around the corner, grinning broadly.

“Buffy!” she said. She waved awkwardly; a half-eaten cannoli was clutched in her fist. “You made it! We were beginning to wonder if you’d get here before the turkey was carved.”

“Yeah, sorry. Shopkeepers around here seem to have this weird idea that they’re allowed to _go home_ for Thanksgiving, apparently.”

“For shame.”

“Right? Hey – cannoli! Is that the same recipe that Andrew got that mention for in the food magazine last week?”

Dawn nodded eagerly. “Yeah – you better hurry up before Xander eats the rest of them!”

An affronted cry from the living room protested: “You ate twice as many as I did!”

Dawn rolled her eyes, then disappeared back around the corner.

Buffy kicked off her shoes and followed her sister down the entrance hall. In the living room, she paused to place the bottle of wine in the center of the dining table, which was surprisingly tastefully decorated with tall, sunset-orange candles and an embroidered cream tablecloth.

“ _Tell me_ there are some cannoli left,” she said as she rounded the couch at the far side of the room.

“Don’t worry; some of us actually think of our friends,” Willow replied with a grin, passing over a tray with three of the cream-filled pastries.

“Weren’t you the one saying that if Buffy didn’t get here in the next two minutes, you were going to eat her share yourself?”

“…You can prove nothing, Xander Harris.”

The couch was a little cramped; Dawn, Willow, and Giles had squeezed themselves onto the seat, and Xander sat on the ground next to the coffee table. Spike was leaning up against the wall, and when Buffy walked in, he offered her a small, greeting nod. Buffy smiled back and perched herself on an armrest.

She took one of the cannoli from the tray and bit into one end.

“Mmgh,” she groaned appreciatively, letting her eyes slide shut.

“I know, right?” Dawn agreed, taking another bite of her own cannoli.

Buffy swallowed. “Andrew, you’re a _star_.”

From the kitchen, Andrew called out: “Thank you!” 

“So, Buffy, how’s the wage-paying job search going?” Xander asked.

But Buffy, eyes still closed, held up a hand. “Cannoli now,” she said firmly. “Talk later.”

Xander snorted.

This was the third year of The Slayer Squad’s Ultimate Night of Glorious Thanksgiving Feasting (or so the beautifully calligraphied invitations they’d received in the mail had declared), and just as with the previous two years, Andrew seemed to have executed the multicourse dinner beautifully. The air was heavy with the savory scent of roasted turkey, overlaid with garlic, butter, and herbs from rosemary to parsley and everything in between. Andrew might specialize in baking, but he was a dab hand at any culinary project he put his mind to. He would have been a _gem_ to have on hand back when Buffy had been forcing her own Thanksgiving in college, she reflected in fond amusement. He was almost as obsessive as she’d been – for the past two weeks, the gang had been subjected to random, frantic calls to approve alterations to the menu or reconfirm their attendance (as if anyone would say no to an Andrew Wells signature meal). At least this year, after being yelled at the first time at 4:30 AM, he seemed to remember that not _everyone_ held bakers’ hours.

If they were being honest, however, the rest of the gang was almost as enthusiastic about Andrew’s holiday feast as he was. Sure, the backbreaking burden of Slayerdom had lifted somewhat since the destruction of the Sunnydale Hellmouth and the activation of thousands of other Slayers across the globe, but sometimes it could still feel to hard to breathe under the pressure of keeping evil at bay. But then Andrew would send out another round of embossed invitations – for Christmas, Hanukah, a long weekend, or just Wednesday – and the air would feel a little less heavy.

Dawn and Xander were squabbling now over which DVD to swap with _Star Wars IV: A New Hope_ – Andrew always started his dinners with the same movie, even though they never made it past the first fifteen minutes before someone hijacked the DVD player. Xander was angling for _Star Trek: First Contact_ ; Dawn advocated _The Wedding Planner_. Xander retorted that Andrew had to _have_ the DVD for them to watch it – but then broke off as Andrew called out: “It’s on the third shelf!”

Buffy snickered to herself and stood up from the couch.

Spike, leaning casually back, had one foot pressed up against the wall, but as Buffy approached, he let it slide back down onto the floor, and he straightened.

“Hey,” he greeted.

“Hey,” she replied. “Whatcha drinking?” She nodded at the glass in Spike’s hands; it was filled with a substance that was, peculiarly, white.

“Eggnog. Boy _still_ says I’m not allowed to eat before everyone else.”

Buffy grinned; it was a show Spike and Andrew danced at every dinner. Spike would gripe about being kept waiting when _his_ food took thirty seconds to heat, and when he made for the fridge to “retrieve his bloody dinner himself”, Andrew would wrestle him back out of the kitchen and shove a drink in his hands. And Spike would moan and groan – but at the end of the night, he never failed to ask Andrew for the recipe of that evening’s substitute drink.

“How rude,” she said, with affected sympathy. “Doesn’t he know you’re a growing vampire?”

“Apparently not. Someone should correct him.” He took a long drink from the glass.

“Noted,” Buffy replied.

There was a pause, but it was a comfortable one. Buffy leaned back up against the wall, watching the rest of the gang; Giles and Willow had joined the debate over the DVDs, and now Xander was outnumbered, three to one.

“Things have been busy lately, haven’t they?” Spike said finally.

Buffy made a small sound of agreement; the past month, they’d been patrolling the Bay Area town of Colma, and all too often, Buffy didn’t collapse into her bed until the sun was rising over the horizon. “It continually amazes me that no one seems to worry about living in a town where the dead outnumber the living _by thousands_ ,” she commented wryly.

“At least most of ‘em are actually dead – a few hundred undead is doable.”

“Still more than enough to keep my hands full. And here I was hoping that maybe I could get a vacation sometime soon!”

Spike nodded sympathetically. “Nog?” he suggested, passing over the glass.

“Thanks.” She took a swig.

When she handed it back, Spike drank as well.

“That’s actually really good eggnog,” Buffy remarked approvingly.

“Yeah, it is – if you want more, though, get your own. Kid has a jug of it in the kitchen.”

Buffy rolled her eyes and made an aborted snatch for Spike’s glass.

“Hey! There’s _plenty_ more in the kitchen – don’t touch mine!”

She shot him an amused stare, but obediently turned and made her way over to the kitchen.

Unlike the living room, which had been cleared of its usual clutter for the holiday, the kitchen was cramped and hectic; several large pots simmered on the stove, and the counter was crammed with bowls and measuring cups and two separate cutting boards. Andrew was at the sink, swiftly wiping down a wooden spoon, and when Buffy walked in, he barely glanced up.

“Hey, Buffy,” he said, running the wooden spoon under a stream of hot water. “What’s up?”

“I’m told there’s eggnog in here?”

Andrew pointed; a tall pitcher stood on the counter, behind a large bowl of peas. “Glasses are in the right cupboard.”

Buffy retrieved one and poured herself a few ounces of the eggnog. Then she stepped back so that Andrew could reach the peas.

“How long until chow time?” she asked, as Andrew began to stir a chunk of butter into the bowl.

He paused, considering. “The turkey is resting, and the pie is in the oven . . . ten minutes or so?”

“Ooh, pie!”

Buffy turned eagerly towards the oven, and cracked open the door. She inhaled deeply as the sweet, spiced scent of pumpkin pie enveloped her in a cloud of heat.

Then a sharp _smack_ against her wrist made her jerk back, and the door sprang shut.

“Hey!”

Andrew stood behind her, wooden spoon poised to strike again if she made another move for the oven door.

“You’re going to let out the heat,” he said accusingly.

Buffy pulled a face. “I just wanted to check on the pie,” she grumbled.

“There _is_ an oven light for that.”

“Yeah, but—“

She broke off as Andrew shoved the bowl of peas into her arms and put his hands on her shoulders to steer her back into the living room.

“If you want to help, start bringing this out to the table,” he said firmly.

Buffy opened her mouth to toss him a sharp retort about having pulled off her _own_ Thanksgiving dinner, thank you very much; he couldn’t just toss her out of the kitchen – but then, as the warm scent of melted butter hit the roof of her mouth, Buffy decided that, actually, Andrew could run his kitchen any way he liked.

“Aye, sir,” she replied, and snapped him a sharp salute as she backed her way out of room.

* * *

By the time the dinner was all laid out across the table, the sunset-orange candles gently burning on either side of the golden roasted turkey, Buffy’s stomach was uncomfortably growling.

“That smells _amazing,_ Andrew,” Dawn said fervently, staring at the bowl of garlic mashed potatoes that he was setting in front of her.

He beamed.

“Spike, can you pass the wine?” Xander asked.

“ . . . This isn’t wine.”

“What . . .? Wait, _why would you put that in a bottle_?”

“I thought it would be tasteful,” Andrew mumbled.

“’ _Tasteful’_?” Xander echoed incredulously. “Seriously?”

Andrew just shrugged.

Xander rolled his eyes and heaved a dramatic sigh. “Can someone pass the _real_ wine, then?”

Just then, there was a soft knock at the door.

Andrew’s head jerked upwards, and a wide, glowing grin spread across his face.

“Coming!” he called out, hastily shoving the serving spoon into the mashed potatoes. He darted off, running one hand through his hair to smooth any flyaway wisps. He still hadn’t noticed the smudge of cranberry sauce above his right eye.

“Well, that’s got to be the beau,” Spike commented, amused. “Fashionably late, apparently.”

The door opened, and from the entrance hall, they could hear Andrew’s cheerful greeting:

“Larry! Hey!”

A few moments later, when Andrew reappeared in the living room, he was beaming and accompanied by the tall, imposing figure of Larry Blaisdell. Larry grinned around at the group with a warm and faintly nervous smile.

The years since Sunnydale had not changed him much; he let his hair grow out a longer than the crew cut he’d kept in high school, and today he wore a neatly-pressed button down shirt, but it was still easy to see the gentle football player he’d once been. A quart of ice cream was tucked under one arm, and he proffered this to Andrew.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said. “It took a little longer than expected to get out of Grandma’s dinner.”

“It’s cool!” Andrew replied quickly. “You said that might happen, and you’re totally not late – look, we’re just sitting down now!”

“Lucky timing, I suppose,” Larry said, grinning.

“Yeah – wait, I’ll just put this in the freezer. Sit down; help yourself to everything on the table.”

Obediently, Larry sat himself in the empty seat to Giles’ left. He smiled, and offered the group a greeting nod.

“By the way, Andrew,” he continued, speaking the direction of the kitchen. “Grandma still says she’s upset you couldn’t come – she missed you!”

“I know; I’m sorry!” Andrew returned to the living room, apron now gone. He tugged on the hem of his shirt, smoothing the fabric, and shot Larry an apologetic grin. “But next year I’ll be there, promise.”

At that, Buffy, who’d been in the process of reaching over Dawn for the mashed potatoes, suddenly froze. “Does that mean you’re not hosting next year?”

Andrew shot her an awkward grin as he took the seat next to Larry. “Um . . . sorry? I’ll still drop by for at least a little bit next year, but, uh, I won’t be able to cook as much, no.”

There was a collective groan around the table, and Xander turned to Larry with a somber expression.

“I’m very sorry to tell you this,” he said gravely. “But you have to break up with him. You can’t take our cook.”

Larry laughed, and Andrew ducked his head slightly, hiding a shy grin.

“Actually, um . . . ,” Andrew muttered to his knees. “Um . . . well. We have something to say about that.”

Larry glanced at Andrew, lifting his eyebrows slightly. “You wanna tell them now?”

“I-I guess?”

“Wait – you’re not _actually_ breaking up, are you?” Xander said hastily. “I was joking about that.”

“No, um . . . well, actually, Larry got a job in Walnut Creek – a permanent position.” One of Andrew’s hands reached out for Larry’s, and their fingers laced together. “So, uh, we’re moving there. Together.” Andrew swallowed slightly, then glanced up at the rest of the table, his expression glowing with simultaneous nervousness and excitement.

Immediately, there was an outburst of enthusiastic babbling.

“Wait, are you _serious_?” Dawn said. “You didn’t mention anything! I mean, that’s great, but – _whoa_.”

“That is a remarkable development,” Giles commented.

“That’s great!” Willow added, looking a little stunned. “When’s this all happening? Are you already looking at places yet?”

“How long have you known?” Buffy cut in.

Larry and Andrew looked a little overwhelmed under the rapid-fire responses, but they were both grinning broadly, and their joined hands squeezed together.

“It’s kinda new,” Larry replied, when there was a pause in the hubbub. “I got the job offer last week, and I suggested getting a place together after that. We’ve only just started making plans.”

“It’s not that far,” Andrew added. “I’m keeping my apprenticeship with Elena, so, um, I’ll still be around.”

“We’re just gonna have our own place now.”

“That’s really awesome,” Buffy said.

Andrew grinned at her. He still looked a little dazed, as if he couldn’t believe it himself.

“Congratulations,” Spike put in, tilting his bottle in acknowledgement in Andrew and Larry’s direction. “I think this deserves a toast.”  

“I second that,” Xander agreed, pouring himself a glass of red wine and carefully placing it far away from Spike’s bottle.

And so, six glasses around the table rose in unison.

“Best of luck to you two,” Giles said, to general murmurs of assent.

“And may you never stop cooking for us!” Dawn added.

Andrew let out an undignified snort – but he was grinning, and as his gaze slid over to Larry, his expression softened.

“It’s a deal,” he replied.

* * *

Two and a half hours later, the last of the pie had packed away and returned to the fridge, and most of the gang had wandered their way back over the couch, where they splayed out, drowsy and overstuffed. Andrew had begun to clear away the dirty plates; he was in the kitchen, and the sound of running water was barely audible over the movie playing in the living room.

Buffy glanced over at the television, and decided that, honestly, she didn’t like _Hannibal Rising_ any more than she had the first time she’d seen that movie. Instead, she heaved herself back to her feet and gathered up a few of the glasses from the table.

She walked into the kitchen, and Andrew looked up.

“Hey – oh, you don’t have to do that!” he said quickly, spotting the glasses in her hands. “I’ve got the dishes okay.”

But Buffy just shrugged and placed the glasses on the counter next to the sink. “Not all that interested in the movie,” she said. “Thought I’d come in here and keep you company.”

“Oh. Well, uh, okay.” Andrew looked a little surprised, but pleased nonetheless.

Buffy took up a dishtowel and began to wipe down the plates Andrew had stacked in the rack.

“So,” she said after a moment. “Moving in with Larry. That’s big, huh?”

Andrew grinned, a little awkwardly, and absently ran a damp hand through his hair. “Y-yeah. It’s a little hard to wrap my mind around, to be honest.”

“ . . . You think you’re ready?”

It wasn’t that she thought he _wasn’t_ ready; Andrew just had a history of jumping in with both feet and ignoring his own limits in order to please people. If he thought moving in together would make Larry happy, he might not have even considered the implications of the move before agreeing.

But when Buffy met Andrew’s eyes, she saw a healthy mix of apprehension and elation cross his expression.

“I – I . . . um, yeah. I think so. I mean, it’s gonna be a huge change, but it’ll be good. I figure, it’s like Riker taking command of the USS Titan, right? It’s really different, and it will take some time to get used to but . . . that’s not a bad thing.”

“Yeah, that’s true,” Buffy said, with a small, encouraging smile.

“I haven’t lived with anyone else since Rome, and that was, like, a really long sleep over,” Andrew added. “Which was cool, but not what Larry and I are going to do. I’m still excited, though. I know we’re gonna have a lot of work, but I . . . I really want to.” He ducked his head slightly, biting back a grin.  “Actually, it’s, uh, more the whole _Walnut Creek_ thing that’s making me anxious. I mean, it’s been a while since I’ve lived in a suburb, and I’ve changed so much since then. I’m a new man. So I dunno what it will be like to not be in the city.”

“You’ll still have the BART, at least. You won’t be that far.”

“Yeah. And at least ‘cause of my hours, I won’t have to deal with rush hour too much. I’m . . . I’m just nervous because I like it _here_ , and this is going to be different.” He shrugged. “But different isn’t bad – it can be cool! And I bet there are totally gonna awesome things about Walnut Creek that we’ll discover when we live there. Like, local secrets you need to be a resident to know.”

“And you’ll be doing it with Larry.”

Shyly, Andrew smiled. “Yeah. That’s . . . that’s gonna be amazing.”

Buffy grinned, and nudged him good-naturedly with an elbow. “He really makes you happy, doesn’t he?”

Andrew nodded, a delicate flush coloring his cheeks. “I still can’t believe it’s been a year and he . . . he’s still here.” 

For a moment, silence fell on the little kitchen. Andrew wiped down another plate and handed it to Buffy, then squirted a little more dish soap into the sink. Buffy watched him, not pushing, just waiting.

Finally, Andrew continued: “When I first told him about Jonathan and everything else I did with the Trio, I thought that was for sure going to be the end. I mean, yeah, in the movies, you’ll get people who sympathize with the ex-villain’s reasons and see them for their inner heart of gold, but . . .” He shrugged. “In real life, it’s still just murder.”

Wryly, the corner of Buffy’s lips twisted upwards. She said nothing; it was pointless to tell Andrew to let it go. No matter how many years passed, that was a weight Andrew would always carry with him.

“But Larry didn’t . . . yeah, he took those two weeks on his own to think about what it meant. And I’m glad he didn’t just say it was okay. But he . . . he thought about it, and then he called me back.”

“I remember that night,” Buffy said.

Awkwardly, Andrew grinned. Buffy knew he was thinking of the same moment; Buffy had unwittingly called him right after Larry had, looking for an opinion on some potentially-demonic activity she’d found on patrol, and she had been startled to hear him obviously choking back sobs. But no, he’d assured her – these were happy tears. _Larry had called him back_. Larry knew the worst of him, knew about the murder and the attempted rape, and _he still wanted to be with Andrew_.

“I’m really lucky,” Andrew said finally. “Larry’s just . . . so great. He’s cooler than Steve Rogers and Captain Kirk and Indiana Jones combined, but he’s . . . he’s more than that. He’s _Larry_. And he loves _me!_ ”

Buffy had to bite back a snort at Andrew’s wide-eyed wonder. “That’s great,” she told him earnestly. “You deserve this.”

Andrew glanced at her then, and the uncertain smile he gave her looked as if he wasn’t entirely sure he believed her . . . but that maybe, he was beginning to.

Buffy smiled back at him. “Hey, you’ll be okay,” she said. “You’re going to do great.”

“You really think so?”

“Sure.”

And as she laid a hand on his shoulder, reassuring him, she realized that she was certain of it.

Andrew had found a remarkable resilience in himself in the years since Sunnydale, and he had built a new life for himself, out of the very ashes of what he’d lost in the Trio. He’d developed a strong sense of self, had cultivated a remarkable skillset, and had surrounded himself with people that genuinely cared about him. Sure, he had plenty more growing to do – they all did – but Buffy felt sure Andrew had what he needed to handle it.

The path Andrew had placed his feet on this time was a bright one. Whatever happened . . . he’d done well.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this fic, and I really hope you enjoyed! If you have the time, please leave a short review; it would be very much appreciated! 
> 
> Also, how is Larry suddenly alive? \\(ツ)/ The Powers That Be decided he was too cute to die, I suppose!
> 
> And many, many thanks to [violentpoetry](http://violentpoetry.tumblr.com) for incredible feedback in the editing process!


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